Funny Games & Hilarious Pranks
by leave your sanity at the door
Summary: A flawed and broken woman comes to the lake house to commit suicide, but fate intervenes, leaving in its wake scuppered plans, broken rules, new games, and an even more twisted joyride. Rated M for the downright obvious, and being a Funny Games fic.
1. AN: feel free to skip!

_**Author's note/ heinously pretentious and self-absorbed semi review / thesis / welcome to my head thingy**_

_**(FEEL FREE TO SKIP, or conversely, PM me to debate about) :**_

Funny Games (referring to the two films interchangeably unless stated otherwise) remains to be one of the scariest, most horrifying films I've ever seen; because unlike the cartoonish nature of movie violence in general, it comes across as inexorably real. The villains are devoid of reason, and the heroes ineffectual. Absent are the grand motives, show stopping revelations and longed-for catharsis which comprise the mainstay of Hollywood narrative. There are no underdogs overcoming the odds, no prolonged bouts of kung-fu fighting or slick improvising of household items as weaponry, and most importantly no neat and sweet happy ending (unless you were routing for the bad guys, that is). It's gritty film making at its best.

Upon the release of the original film, Haneke opined that anyone who watched it in its entirety "needed" the film - in less prolix terms; "you're a depraved, immoral person who gets off on this kind of thing". He demonstrates this via several asides to the camera courtesy of 'Paul' (Arno Frisch / Michael Pitt), projecting that viewers must be complicit in the heroes' downfall, and further slams it home with the contentious rewind scene; although to be fair it's not as if we have a choice in the matter. Knowing Haneke (or what I've read of him anyway) this may have been more of a deliberate provocation – because he does love to wind (and rewind) people up – than an accusation. If taken at face value, however, I'm inclined to disagree with him, no matter how many times the fourth wall is broken to try and convince me otherwise. The disparity between what he seems to assume I feel, and what I really feel, couldn't be greater (...although I'll come right out and admit I felt (still feel) horribly conflicted about Michael Pitt's 'Paul', and I wonder if Haneke didn't deliberately up the ante by casting him in that role. More on that later, though). I don't enjoy watching people get tortured and murdered; what I have is a morbid curiosity and a compulsion to stray beyond my comfort zone, but that's not to say I get off on it.

Thus, I am not writing this fic with equal disdain for the reader (and If indeed Haneke holds viewers in such low regard, I wonder what he would say about fanfic denizens). I'm not using the characters as a vehicle for my own assertions. What I am aiming to do, however, is create something equally stimulating (and I realise how conceited this may sound, *coughcough-MichaelPitt'sButtMmmHmmmMmmmHmm-coughc ough*). Whilst there's no breaking of the fourth wall or projections of guilty conscience, I've tried to stay as faithful to the movie as possible (hopefully you'll see what I mean), and I hope it'll get your noggin' going.

What actually inspired me to write this fic, however, was the aforementioned horrible confliction I felt for Michael Pitt's version of 'Paul' (obviously not his real name). This is where the distinction between film and real life weighs important; he's a villain and an utterly deplorable character, which in reality (in most cases anyway) would override or quash any possible attraction. It is also where my moral quandry springs from. I shouldn't feel at all attracted to him, but I do, and it's because he's at a safe distance that I can allow myself to. A fictional character, however, would not have this luxury, and this was what I wanted to explore in a fic.

Whether or not Pitt's version is designed to get ladies' knickers in a twist, I can only speculate. What I do know is that, love him or hate him, Haneke is a very astute director. He may misjudge certain aspects of his audience, but he certainly knows what he wants in characters and the actors who portray them. The Austrian villains look like an odd pair – literally, wirey dark-haired Paul and cumbersomely bodied, pale-haired Peter - and I would assume they are meant to be, in order to unsettle the viewer. Their American versions resemble preppy rich kids, for the same reason (aside: and it is interesting to note how two opposite constructs – the unfamiliar weirdo type vs the ubiquitously seen preppy one - provide the same dramatic effect). Thus, it doesn't seem an unreasonable assumption that Pitt was cast to put a slightly different, more appealing (if you can call it that) slant on Paul.

Indeed, out of all the adaptation's ingredients, it is his character that has undergone the most change. Now, don't get me wrong, there is equal merit in both performances and I appreciate them both for what they are, but Pitt's has far more of an impact on me. Whereas Arno Frisch's perennially beta-named character is all aloof menace and downright creepiness, Pitt's is more vibrant and dare I say youthful (in fact, both the villains are). He's terrifying, but not awkward or creepy with it. What is more, he brings a sense of carnality to the character that simply isn't there with Frisch; and like I say, I wonder if this wasn't intentional. The cynic in me blames it on what Haneke may see as American audience's demand for eye candy (and no offence to Susanne Lothar but to my knowledge she is not regarded as a sex symbol like Naomi Watts), but I actually feel that Pitt's allure extends beyond mere good looks. Sometimes he's cold, always he's cunning, but there's an enticing confidence about him in the way he walks, talks and emotes, unlike Frisch who plays the character with much more subtelty - and in my opinion he's all the scarier for it. (As an aside, I would indeed argue that the American antagonists are in many ways scarier than their Austrian counterparts; like I say, the Austrian characters seem more like weirdos escaped from the insane assylum, but the American ones could literally be 'normal' rich kids – not necessarily psychotic or sociopathic - going on a killing spree simply because they can.)

Ironic as it is (and deliberately so), Haneke's movie serves as a polemic against the proliferation, trivialization and glamorization of violence and torture on the big screen. This fic is not altogether different, but in all honesty it's more about entertaining (if you can call it that) and hopefully inspiring thought than railing against the ills of modern life. I watched the original Funny Games because I wanted a challenge – indeed, because I'd heard it was psychologically torturous, and I wanted to challenge myself in that way - and the remake because curiosity compelled me. This fic may not be so challenging. Obviously it's dark, but not on the same level of torture as the film. Neither is it meta-fiction with characters performing for an audience and rewinding events to alter the outcome. Like I say, I've attempted (perhaps pretentiously) to pull off some of Haneke's tricks (and bonus points to anyone who can spot them) but these are not they.

I hope you 'enjoy' this fic, and I welcome any reviews, constructive criticisms, thoughts and opinions on it. I am also open to discussion, so feel free to PM me.

Over and out... for now.


	2. Chapter 1

**_AN:_**

**_July 9 UPDATE: Normally I'm a crazy stickler for detail, but it appears I have lapses. Oh dear. I completely forgot that Jenny was the daughter of Fred and Eva Thompson, and alluded to her instead as a separate neighbor who was close both in proximity and relations to the Farbers and the Thompsons. It serves as no detriment to the plot of this story, but I apologize nevertheless. _**

**_Also: Russian and Russian-speaking viewers (who I'm getting all of a sudden) may wonder why the character's patronymic is absent. There's a reason for this, which will be made clear by the end of the story (hope you'll stick around for that long)._**

_Shout out to Nik216 for her editing skills and general craziness. I love you girl!_

_Resemblance to any other Funny Games fics is purely coincidental. _

_I regret nothing. I own nothing. Michael Haneke owns my non-existant booty.  
_

* * *

"I'm sorry, Jacques," Lera whispered to the air as she combed her fingers roughly through her tangled brown mess of a bob. "I'm sorry Mom. I'm sorry Dad. I'm sorry Anton. I'm sorry everyone. More sorry than you'll ever know."

Hazel-brown eyes, reddened and puffy on a tear-streaked face, stared back from the full length mirror, unforgiving reminders of a reality she had been scared to confront for nearly a year. She turned away from her reflection in disgust, at the body that had turned against her, and the man who had, too.

She had been young and lithe when they met; now, she was a wreck - 40lbs heavier (everywhere but her breasts, naturally) and seemingly older than her years. That wonderful vibrancy 22 year-old Lera has possessed, was gone. 28-year-old Lera was a different woman, worn out from fighting against a disease that had taken her fertility and her youth at only 25.

*I should have died back then*, she thought sombrely.

At least she had retained some dignity back then. At least Jacques had loved her back then. What dignity had she now, having decided to end a life that three years earlier she and her loved ones had fought so hard to preserve? It was a complete slap in the face to them and their tireless efforts. It was downright cruel. They deserved better from her. Indeed, her conscience protested, if she had any shred of compassion, she wouldn't be doing this.

But she wasn't living for them. Ultimately, she couldn't. And if they couldn't understand that, then... then it was already hopeless.

Jacques. It was make or break. Do or die. Literally. The plan was to come to their Hamptons lake house on Friday to have it out with her fianceé, and if it turned out her suspicions were confirmed, she would make him sorry, imprint upon him a guilty conscience that would make him rue the day he'd ever looked in another woman's direction. Yes, she was sorry, but he would never know that. She wanted to hurt him like he had hurt her, take from him as he had taken from her. However, her original plan had been scuppered when he had called her, barely an hour before they were due to meet for the journey, telling her to go there alone, and that he would join her mid afternoon the next day. Work, again, or so he said. That tired old excuse all cheating partners employed, believing or even simply hoping their significant other would be stupid, deluded or desperate enough to buy.

Lera was neither stupid nor deluded – she'd seen the missed calls from private numbers on his phone, felt the sting of the 'click' when she'd answered it that one time and the mystery caller had hung up. She had even confronted him about them several times. Jacques had denied it, of course. But she _was_ desperate, until a few weeks ago clinging to the vain hope that he would suddenly wake up and, like magic, change his ways. She would forgive him his transgressions – every single one – if he only promised to change. The realization that this would never truly happen was what had finally broken her - this was who he was now on the inside, just as this ugly, prematurely aged body was who she was on the outside; and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Saturday would be the end, at mid-day; approximately five hours before Jacques was due to arrive. She would simply drink an entire bottle of vodka, accompanied by a month's supply of sleeping pills, then lay down in the lake and force herself to drown.

Today was Saturday, and Lera Dyagileva had four hours left to live.

If everything went according to plan.

* * *

Friday evening had been spent in what felt like an eternity of unrest; the same heartbreaking thoughts circling around and around in her head as she paced around the empty house, fidgeted whilst sitting on couches, chairs, and downed tumbler after tumbler of Jacques' precious malt whiskey until the bottle was empty. Around midnight, the familiarity of her surroundings breeding contempt had compelled her to leave the house for a walk. Despite being a gated community, once inside, every house in the lakeside estate was reachable via the lake bank and paths through the picturesque copses. Sailing was quicker, of course, but Lera preferred to walk.

It was sheer drunken idiocy that had compelled her to stumble to the Farbers', in the ludicrous hope that Ann and George – who, as fate would cruelly have it, had just happened to ask her and Jacques if they would join them that weekend - would be awake, and the even more ludcirous hope that they would invite her in for a coffee and a heart to heart. Of course, she wouldn't be telling them of her plans for tomorrow. She just wanted to see them, one final time, because they happened to be here at the same time she was.

Lera liked the Farbers; they were regular clients at Jacques' restaurant, and it was they who two years ago had let him know about the sale of the lake house so close to theirs. A beautiful place to escape to and relax, Ann had said; ideal for a young woman like Lera, recuperating from the ravages of cancer, excisions and chemotherapy. The five of them had gone for several weekends there together; walking the dog, boating, Lera and Ann baking disastrous creations whilst Jacques and George played soccer with Georgie. They had introduced Jacques and Lera to the other residents in the predominantly WASP community, although nothing had come of it. Out of all the people there, the Farbers were the only ones not to behave condescendingly around the "poor girl afflicted with cancer at such a young age".

In other words, the poor Russian immigrant girl, who had no money to her own name but had the gall to be engaged to that very successful, affluent and handsome Quebecois businessman from that equally successful and affluent Quebecois family so renowned in the restaurant business. That poor girl, that nobody, who _deserved_ to be struck down with fertility-destroying cancer at age 25 for having the audacity to date outside her station.

That, and they weren't ignorant snobs. No, Lera couldn't call the Farbers close friends, but they were certainly lovely people to spend a few days with.  
Their SUV sat in the drive, so they were certainly there, but fortunately the house lights were off, and no-one answered the doorbell. Just as well, she had reasoned, a semblance of sobriety kicking back in as she headed back. She had contemplated wrapping on the window of their closest neighbor, Jenny, and running away like a mischievous kid, but decided against it because she simply couldn't muster the enthusiasm. Not even for Jenny, who deemed first-generation immigrants scum.

* * *

Saturday. Lera awoke from a dreamless sleep at just past 7am, hungover and foggy-brained. At 8:13 she stood naked, facing a king size bed that she and Jacques used to cavort in, and it was enough to make her queasy. Bile rose in her throat and she barely made it to the bathroom in time.

Head in the toilet bowl, she thought she heard the doorbell ring. Shakily she rose to her feet, listening. Although the bathroom and bedroom windows faced onto the front of the house, the front door was obscured by a screened-in porch, so the best she could do was wait and listen. A few moments later, it sounded again. Jacques was early?

No, it wouldn't be Jacques – he had a key, which to her knowledge he had never lost. That only really left the Farbers... unless some nutjob had scaled the gate, intent on shooting her the moment she opened the door. But that never happened around here.

Regardless, even if it was clear she had been crying, she couldn't greet them with vomit on her breath. She opened the bathroom window as wide as possible, leaned out and yelled in her cheeriest voice "hey, sorry! I'll be there in a moment."

"OK!" replied a disembodied male voice. It sounded more youthful than Geroge, but to be fair, it was hard to tell from just one word. People often sounded different over the airwaves.

After splashing her face, hastily brushing her teeth, and throwing on her only change of underwear and the denim maxi-dress she had arrived in, she rushed downstairs, in her shoeless haste managing to lodge a splinter in the ball of her right foot. Wincing, but undeterred, she reached her destination, retrieved the key from the pocket of her hanging jacket, and after a brief pause to compose herself, finally opened the door.

Standing there were two clean-cut young men of indeterminable college age, dapper in pristine golf attire. One was dirty-blonde-haired, slim and long-legged, around Jacques' height – 5'11 – and wouldn't have looked out of place in a Tommy Hilfiger commerical. The other was shorter – although still a good few inches taller than her - and slightly stocky, with an almost childlike cuteness about him, and hair a shade darker.

Lera was about to wonder how they had gotten in when she noticed the shorter boy was holding his left hand, blood visibly seeping through his white glove.

"Sorry to disturb you, M'am," said the taller boy, "but we're wondering if you could help us. We're relatives of Robert and Betsy Ebner. It's a beautiful morning so we took one of their boats out, and... well... a gust of wind came out of nowhere, and as we're not really experienced sailors we.. ugh... ended up crashing into your dock, and my friend hurt his hand. We came to apologize for the damage to the dock."

"Oh..." she began, less concerned with the dock than with the kid's well being, "don't worry about the dock, for now. Do you need something for the injury?"

"Oh..." the shorter boy echoed her in an almost femininely soft voice, looking somewhat sheepish, "we don't wanna impose."

"Don't be silly," she replied with a reassuring smile, "you're not imposing. I don't have any bandages but I've certainly got some sanitizing gel, Band-Aids and painkillers, if those are OK?"

"That'd be wonderful, thank you so much."

"Yes," the taller boy added, "thank you."

"It's no bother. Please, come in."

The moment she'd said it, suspicion and self-recrimination began to kick in. Despite the apparent injury these young men were still strangers. It could be a ruse just to get in the house. She should have told them to wait outside.

But it was too late now, and to be fair, it didn't matter; she was going to die anyway today. Jacques would be the one to pick up the pieces if the kids burglarized the house and murdered her. Hell, it may even work out better if she received a slit throat or a bullet to the brain. Much quicker than sleeping tablets and drowning. Better odds, too.

*You're paranoid* she thought, feeling oddly deflated rather than relieved, *they're just preppy kids, probably Ivy League. Cocaine, pranks and frat parties are their thing, not burglary and murder. So, too bad, but it's still the sleeping pills and lake for you my dear!*

*Depends what you consider pranks,* another inner voice contested.

The boys thanked her in unison as she ushered them into the spacious hall.

"Feel free to get cleaned up," she continued, "bathroom's second door on the left."

"I'll wait for the Band-Aids and gel," answered the shorter boy, "but thank you."

"OK, well... wait here. I'll be right back. Sanitizing gel, Band-Aids _and_ painkillers?"

"If you could?"

"Of course. And if you need any tweezers, I'm bringing those too."

The boys looked confused.

"Never walk around wooden floors barefoot," she smiled, "I learnt that just a minute ago."

The duo humored her with a polite laugh.

Ascending the stairs, she almost burst out laughing herself, imagining an absurdly comic scenario in which the boys' visit indeed turned out to be a ruse, and she returned from upstairs to find them pointing guns at her. *Put down your guns, boys!* she would say, *I've got TWEEZERS! That's right, down. All the way down. Yeah, no contest there. OK, now pick them up and fire away! I want these walls painted red, y'hear?* Her thoughts turned yet more twisted as she entered the bathroom; two males, one female – she could do the math. What would stop them from taking the opportunity?

Well, the taller one wasn't bad... and she bet he knew it too. Attractive guys, especially wealthy ones, always knew it - Jacques being a prime example. No wonder he'd been having affairs; whilst she was a bona-fide wreck, he remained a knockout beauty. He deserved someone of his own league, right?

Fuck him. To hell. She had always been good to him, and that was what counted. Succumbing to disease and dilapidation did not justify him screwing other women, no matter how perfectly preserved he was. But he was a decade her senior, and wanted children – something she could no longer give him, at least biologically.

How dare he.

No, the taller boy wasn't bad at all. And whatever cologne he was wearing, it had smelt good. _He_ smelt good. She wondered what he tasted like.

She cursed aloud, shaking her head. No, that was sick. Utterly depraved. She despaired of herself sometimes, now more than ever.

*But it's not rape it you allow it. If you want it.*

Depositing the tweezers in her dress pocket and bundling the items into her hands, she tried to force the thoughts down, only for them to resurface the moment the boys came back into view. Well, even if their intentions were genuine, didn't mean she couldn't proposition _them_ – or the blonde one, at least. The worst he could do was vomit and faint on the spot... and then wake up, punch her in the face, and leave.

Best forget it.

Shit.. he really wasn't bad, though.

"Here you are," she said, smiling, extending the sanitizing gel and Band-Aids to the stockier boy, whilst praying frantically not to blush at the nefarious thoughts concerning his friend that now refused to go away, "I'll just go and get you some water for the painkillers."

"Oh no, that's fine," he replied, "I'm not in that much pain, to be honest. Just give me two now. I'll put them in my pocket just in case I need them later."

"You don't want to take them right now?"

"No. The Ebners don't have any, and we're not planning on going to the shops today, so I'll keep them in my pocket just in case."

"In that case, just take the packet."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. It's fine."

"Thank you, M'am. You're very kind."

"Not at all."

"Actually, did you get the tweezers? On second thoughts they might help."

Lera retrieved them from her pocket and handed them to him, outwardly belying the caution that spiked in her chest. He could take her eye out with those. Dear God, she was a prize moron sometimes.

"Do you mind if I go and get cleaned up now?"

"Sure. Go ahead. Bathroom's-"

"Second door on the left?"

"Right- I mean, yes, that's right."

"Stage right, Tom," the blonde boy chimed in.

His shorter friend chuckled and walked off.

To Lera's dismay, the newfound object of her affection edged a fraction closer. Only a fraction, but it was enough to feel the air hotten up, and she had a feeling it was deliberate. Oh yes, he did smell good.. Flawless skin. Pouty lips. Big blue eyes. Even the timbre of his voice... Her mind raced trying to come up with something non-ditzy to say, whilst still commanding herself not to blush.

"Stage right?" she managed.

"It's a theatre term. Means left, basically."

"How does that work out?"

"It's done for the sake of the audience. From the actor's perspective, he's on the left; however for the audience, who are obviously facing him, he's on the right."

"Oh-kay..."

He grinned, chuckling; "Yeah, it's pointless and unnecessarily confusing, I know. We're part of our college's am-dram society. Sorry; amateur dramatics."

"Really? Wow."

"Hah," he laughed, "not so wow, but it's a lot of fun."

She nodded.

"What college?"

"Guess."

"Hmmm... East coast?"

"Warm."

"Ivy League?"

"Warmer."

"Knew it."

He laughed out loud; "We look like trust fund babies, don't we?" It was an acknowledgement rather than a question. "So, which college?"

"Err.. God, I don't know.. Err.. Give me a clue?"

"My accent. Not Peter's."

"Oh.. erm.. Penn-"

He hissed, narrowing his eyes; "ice cold."

"I didn't mean that. I didn't, really."

"You bet you didn't!"

"Slip of the tongue."

"Mmm hmm. So..?"

"Princeton?"

He smiled warmly, two thumbs up.

Shit, shit shit. He was smiling at her. And now she _was_ blushing.

GAME OVER. Score 1 to Blondie of Princeton.

As if by magic, his friend chose that moment to make his reappearance, the injured hand still gloved. Wearing a beguiling smile, he handed her the tweezers, thanking her as she took them and dropped back into her dress pocket.

"I'm Paul, by the way," Blondie said affably, extending his hand, "and this is Peter."

Hadn't he called him Tom a moment ago? No matter; it was probably just a nickname.

"Lera," Lera replied, accepting the handshake and returning the smile.

"Lera? That's an interesting name."

"It's Russian. Short for Valeria."

"I see. Lovely."

"Thank my parents."

"I will. If I ever get the chance to meet them."

His friend looked at the floor, giving a shy giggle.

*Err, OK...*

"First gen immigrants?"

"Yes."

"You don't have a Russian accent," Peter mused bashfully.

"Mila Kunis doesn't either," she replied with a wry smile.

"Who's Mila Kunis?"

"Meg Griffin in Family Guy."

"Oh. I don't watch Family Guy."

"Well, you get the point anyway."

"No..." Peter replied, expression blank.

A few moments of awkward silence prevailed, Lera not entirely sure if the boy was a bit slow or simply teasing her.

"Ah, Tom, stop it," the slimmer boy chided in jest, clapping his friend on the upper arm, before continuing to Lera; "He's joking. His major's psychology, and he loves to play these little mind games with people just to gage their reaction."

"Right," Lera said with a nod. Despite pretending to take him at face value, she felt a vague sense of disingenuousness in his explanation. Still, it was unlikely to be of any consequence.

A tiny voice in the back of her head whispered that 'unlikely' wasn't good enough, but she dismissed it without a second thought.

"This is really nice house," Paul said, his gaze sweeping admiringly up and down the hall.

"Oh, it's not mine," Lera replied with unpractised difficulty, forcing a smile, all the while mentally kicking herself for offering him an opportunity to probe further. He and his friend certainly seemed the inquisitive type. Talking of or even mentioning or alluding to Jacques was something best avoided, lest she fall to pieces in front of complete strangers.

"Whose is it... if you don't mind me asking?" asked the shorter boy softly.

*Knew it.*

Yes, she did mind. Why was it any business of theirs who the house belonged to? Why should they even care anyway?

*Don't be so harsh on them - they're only trying to make conversation. You gave them a lead to follow, after all. You brought this on yourself.*

"It's my..." her sentence seemed to pause of its own accord, as an uncomfortable tightness clasped around her throat.

"Your...?" the taller boy prompted.

She could have said parents, other relatives, friends – anyone but Jacques. She could have even said it didn't matter, and sorry but she had chores to do... Yet, against her better judgment, she still found herself answering truthfully;

"My... fianceé's."

The answer came out heavy with the same awkward reluctance she had thought it in, which in a way was fortunate; if the boys had any clue, they would abandon the question after this. The problem now was that, all of a sudden, she was perilously close to tears. First blushing, and then breaking down. Fantastic.

"He's not your fianceé any more, is he?" said Peter, his quiet, gentle tone sounding more like an affirmation than a question.

*What?!*

Anger flared up, quashing the tears that only a moment ago had threatened to spill. Was this boy autistic or just downright rude? Even if he was playing 'mind games' he had nevertheless overstepped the mark. For a moment she wondered, even, if Jacques had sent them himself - the coward – before reasoning that even he wouldn't be so cruel.

"Peter!" his friend cried, outraged. "You can't ask her questions like that!"

He turned to Lera, shaking his head; "I'm really sorry about him, Ma'm. Peter, please apologize to the lady."

Something about the odd dynamic of the duo raised slight alarm bells in her mind. Peter's rudeness notwithstanding, Paul's reaction seemed a little over the top and certainly didn't warrant him talking down to the poor boy, humiliating him in front of a stranger. Still, it was probably nothing. She tried to shake the thought from her mind, and as the anger subsided, instead channel her efforts into keeping the tears at bay again.

"I'm sorry," Peter said, evidently embarassed, "... But I'm right though, aren't I?"

*Excuse me?!*

"Tubby, stop it! It's none of our business, and it's clear she doesn't want to talk about it."

Damn right she didn't. But this... was very strange. No matter how she tried to logicise it away – cousins or adopted siblings trying to annoy each other by proxy; autistic kid and his relative or assigned student buddy, relative/buddy at the end of his tether from constantly having to clean up for autistic kid's social mishaps – there was still something amiss. Exactly what, however, she couldn't discern. But it was far more than harmless mind games.

Still, if it was simply a means to an end...

Peter apologized again, adding, with a nervous laugh; "These things just come out sometimes. I'll think something and it's out my mouth before I know it, like Tourette's I suppose. You know, the ticks?"

"Ah," she replied, not completely buying his answer.

A glance passed between the duo, to which her heart began to speed up. Something _was_ going on, and for some elusive reason it was making her feel increasingly uncomfortable, in spite of her suicidal ideals.

Seemingly right on cue, Paul cleared his throat, then announced; "Well, thank you very much for your hospitality, Lera – M'am – but I think we should be going now. Betsy and Robert'll be wondering where we are. We said we'd only be half an hour and we've been twice that."

"Why don't you call them? You've both got cell phones, right?"

*Jesus*, she despaired at her lack of self control. What she should have done was smile and send them on their way. Forgoing any hopes of dying by their hands was a worthy sacrifice if it meant she didn't have to feel so rattled - *But you still don't want them to go, do you?* - and so horribly... conflicted.

"Oh, yes, but mine's run out of charge and Peter's.. well, you may find this hard to believe but.."

Eyeing the floor, Peter began chuckling.

Paul too, took on a jovial tone; "..get this, _Lera_;" something about the way he pronounced her name sent shivers through her, and she noted how his eyes, too, had become a whole level more piercing; "he's so clumsy, he dropped his in the lake!"

"I really do have two left hands, don't I!"

Forcing herself to disregard their little chirade, Lera managed a transparent smile and replied "Well use the landline here then."

*You shouldn't have done that.* she scolded herself, *You really should have just asked them to leave. Idiot. Or is it that you do actually want them to stay? Blondie's acting strange but he's no less hot, right? A hot guy, giving you his attention before he pulls a gun or knife on you? You're sick.*

With nary a word of thanks, both boys strode past her through the open double doors into the living room on her left.

"Hey, wait a minute!" she called after them, taken aback at their sudden boldness and the probable fact that if they knew where the landline was they must have been snooping around while she was upstairs.

By the time she had entered the room, the boys were already on the other side of it by the far side side patio doors, Peter holding the handset and about to dial.

"Wait a minute. Stop," Lera said firmly.

The duo obeyed.

"What's going on?" she demanded, fortunately managing to keep her tone more measured than she felt.

The taller boy frowned, his shorter companion looking mildly startled.

"Don't play dumb. Tell me what's going on."

"Nothing's going on, M'am," Paul replied innocently, "we just want to make a call to the Ebners."

"You said we could," his friend piped up.

"That's not what I meant."

Paul took over again; "What did you mean? Sorry, I don't understand-"

"You know exactly what I mean," Lera persisted, folding her arms.

"No...?"

There it was for the second time – that same one word answer and blank-faced expression, but from the taller boy.

"Can we not just make the call?" Peter asked plaintively.

"You know what," Lera said, striding forward and snatching the handset from him, "I'll call them. I don't have their number but if you'd be so kind as to give it to me, I'll call them."

"It's fine," Paul said curtly, "we can do it."

"It is _not_ fine."

"How come?"

"Jesus!" Lera exclaimed, exasperated, throwing her hands up.

"Please can we just..." Peter beseeched her nervously, stepping dangerously closer "...make the call?" He fixed his pale eyes on hers, all wide and lucid like some expectant puppy. Now he was just taking the piss.

Lera took a step back, holding the handset possessively to her chest.

"You've had your fun. Played your little games. Now please leave. I don't care about the dock; I'll go over to the Ebners later and discuss it with you and them then."

"I don't see why we can't just-" Paul started.

"Stop it! How many times do I need to-"

Blondie advanced on her, causing her heart to ratchet up to a high speed gallop. A dizzying mixture of fear, confusion and horrible but unrelenting desire began to mingle in her head, each ingredient settling in a different part of her anatomy, and suddenly she found coherent thought impossible. Mere centimeters separated them, and she could discern the exact color of his eyes – steel-blue – the enviable length of his eyelashes, and smell his scent. For those few moments everything else seemed to melt away, and all she knew was.. she didn't. She had absolutely no clue. Had she been demanding he leave just a second ago? What did she want now?  
Her rational side tried to claw its way out from beneath the rubble, but was promptly silenced by her overwhelming confliction.

"You're making this far more complicated than it needs to be, Lera," he purred. A threat though it was, it sounded like pure seduction.

She was blushing unreservedly now, transfixed and routed to the spot.

"Lera?" he cooed, closing the gap between them and gently pressing himself to her, trailing his fingers delicately up the side of her bare arms.

Lera's skin rejoiced at the tickly contact. He was doing this on purpose and it didn't matter. It felt too damn good to matter.

"Leeeraaa?"

The sound of giggling from somewhere in the background snapped her out of the trance, and she made the mistake of severing eye contact with her tormentor. The instant she looked around him, his hand shot into her dress pocket, grabbed the tweezers and jabbed them savagely into her upper arm. She was afforded no time to react before he grabbed her by the shoulders and brought a knee up into her stomach.

Winded and in searing pain, she collapsed to the hardwood floor.

"It didn't have to come to this, Lera," said Blondie disappointedly, crouching down beside her, "you should have just let us make the call."


	3. Chapter 2

**AN: **

_**July 9 UPDATE: Normally I'm a crazy stickler for detail, but it appears I have lapses. Oh dear. I completely forgot that Jenny was the daughter of Fred and Eva Thompson, and alluded to her instead as a separate neighbor who was close both in proximity and relations to the Farbers and the Thompsons. It serves as no detriment to the plot of this story, but I apologize nevertheless. **_

_Resemblance to any other Funny Games fics is purely coincidental. _

_I regret nothing. I own nothing. Michael Haneke owns my derrier. _

* * *

Physically incapacitated and too stunned to think, Lera simply lay there, watching in a semi daze as the boys swiftly went about removing the plastic covers from the two cream couches and wide, matching chairs. Neither did she make an attempt to fight Blondie off as he eased her up, with astounding carefulness, and onto the the couch that faced the windows and left hand side patio doors. The mid-morning sun shone garishly through the glass, causing her to squint. Noting this, or reading her mind, the shorter boy hastily drew the window blinds, but left both sets of patio curtains open.

Whatever it was, it wasn't a gesture of kindness.

Blondie seated himself on the opposite couch, beneath the window. His friend flopped down beside him, with a satisfied sigh.

"Tired already, Tubby?" Blondie chided, "I told you, you need to work on your fitness."

"I'm perfectly fit, thank you," retorted the softly spoken boy. "I thrashed you in the squash court last week, remember?"

Blondie fixed him with a sceptical expression.

"What, Butthead?"

"Beavis, you know I only let you win to make you feel better about yourself-"

"-Whatever."

"-and frankly it's time I manned up. Someone's gotta tell you or you'll never learn."

His friend made a petulant face.

"Anyway," he said, nodding in Lera's direction, "How about you attend to our injured host?"

The boy gave a non-committal shrug, standing up and retrieving the Band-Aids and hand gel from his shorts pocket. Reflex alone caused Lera to flinch as he approached her.

"Please just relax, M'am," he said softly, leaning closer, "I only want to help."

Confused and infuriated by his sickeningly innocent facade, Lera jolted further to the side.

"Please, M'am-"

"Get away from me!" she snarled, instinct to survive overcoming desire to die. The boy hovered over her, close enough for her to knee him in the groin if she could muster the energy - and she reckoned that now she probably could – if only to get back at him for his ridiculous little games.

But she didn't.

"M'am, your arm's bleeding."

"Why does that matter to you?!"

The boy sighed, dropping the items on the couch beside her, then re-joining his friend. Lera left them, her painful, bleeding arm bothering her far less than the duo's presence. But where instinctual fear – that stupid need for self preservation that overrode everything, even the desire to die - screamed shrilly at her to make a run for it, anger and gnawing, morbid curiosity compelled her to stay.

"If you want to make that phone call, just do it and leave," she seethed, shooting accusatory glances at the pair, despite sensing that they wouldn't be amenable to the request or even that she meant it. Why she even asked it, she wasn't entirely sure; perhaps it was the scarce bit of fighting back she would be able to do before she willingly let them kill her?

"No can do, sorry," Blondie said resolutely.

Not so strangely, his answer didn't surprise her. She had been correct all along.. and she had known it.

"Right," she nodded, filled with a sudden, odd calm, "because it wasn't about the phone call, was it? You're not staying with Betsy and Robert."

"Not staying with, as such... But that _is_ their boat outside."

Peter snickered under his breath, smiling broadly like a cute but macabre marionette. A marionette with blood-stained gloves.

_*No..._*

*_Why so horrified? You should be happy; you'll get your wish after all. What – you're not going to chicken out now are you?_*

No, it wasn't her impending doom in itself that horrified her – because, deep down, wasn't that precisely why she had let them in? - it was the sheer realization not only that she was staring her would-be murderers in the face, but that she wasn't their first... and that they were so young. Fresh-faced Ivy League kids got up to pretty appalling stuff at times, but they didn't go around on homicidal jaunts in the Hamptons. That was the stuff of fiction.

Not any more.

*_No, Dorothy, we're _still_ in Kansas, and the ish is going down right here and now._*

But it wasn't of any consequence. She couldn't allow it to be. All that mattered was that her miserable existence would come to an end, and Jacques would forever be sorry. End of story.

Ludicrously, she found herself suddenly wondering why only Peter's gloves were bloodied.

*_Well, they could have strangled or drowned them, and then he had a nose bleed or something.._*

It took less courage than she anticipated to square her shoulders and retort "well if you're going to kill me too then just get on with it."

"Darling, please!" Paul exclaimed, "We've only just met!"

"I'm serious," Lera continued, stern-faced. "I came here to off myself anyway. So we're already in accord."

The duo exchanged bewildered glances.

"Just do it, come on!"

"Oh Lera," cooed Blondie, "you're precious. I like you!"

Tight-lipped and exhaling audibly, she glared at him.

"I think she's serious," noted Peter.

"Yes, I am. So why don't you-"

Blondie cut across her, his expression incredulous; "Lera, why would you want to _kill_ yourself?"

"Her ex-fiancé," Peter mused aloud, "she almost cried when I mentioned him earlier."

She wanted to throttle the kid. Stamp down on his groin, then wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze. Yet she knew already that it was pointless trying; not only for her being outnumbered, but moreover, because his postulation left her feeling equally as incapacitated as the physical blow had done. Her ire turned to dismay, her dismay to sorrow, and finally she crumpled, hanging her head and surrendering to the long overdue downpour.

The boys began conversing about something, but she was too immersed in her own dejection to take it in. It was only when she heard her name being called loudly, accompanied by the snap of fingers right in front of her face, that she noticed Blondie crouching before her. She flinched, but he only shuffled closer to her.

"Lera," he said, his tone now kinder, "I was only asking if you wanted a tissue."

She froze, indecisive. It was hardly a tough decision, but still one that was beyond her at that precise moment. What if was another ruse, and the moment she wiped her nose she would pass out, waking up later buried alive or missing her tongue? At the very least, she was being offered tissues by a murderer.

"Do you?" Blondie prompted.

He didn't wait on her answer, instead fishing a travel-size packet of unopened Kleenex from his shorts pocket, opening it neatly and pulling out a tissue.

"It's just a tissue, Lera. It's not gonna bite you."

Lera accepted it gingerly, eager though she was to wipe her embarrassingly snotty nose. Dear God she was even uglier when she cried. No chance of shagging Blondie now, if she even wanted to... which she didn't want to think about. She would rather they just killed her on the spot, if only to prevent her humiliating herself any further.

As if sensing her quandary, Blondie sat down beside her – closer than was necessary – further accentuating the unease, and, to Lera's horror, with the desired effect. She could almost feel the warmth of his skin and taste the acrid chemicals in his cologne. Willpower deserting her, she looked sideways, snatching a quick glance at his lower body; long, slender legs, with impressively toned calves and thighs that no doubt could administer a good hard kick. They also proved he was a natural blonde.

Ashamed, she instantly resumed staring at the floor before her, having incriminated herself once again. It was so, so wrong.

"So you want to kill yourself because your fiancé – ex-fiancé? - dumped you?" he asked with gentle but obvious incredulity.

Without moving her gaze, she replied, through sobs; "We're still engaged. He's cheating on me."

She didn't owe these boys any answers, especially as it appeared they wouldn't understand anyway - unless of course she regaled them with her life history - yet it felt strangely cathartic to do so. Ludicrously, they were the first people she had told the absolute truth to, so hell bent had she been on keeping up appearances amongst family and friends. It had become a burden, and now it was time to ease that burden , albeit only marginally. It was time someone knew.

"Because of _that_?"

Yes, there were people trapped and dying in wars in the Middle East, soldiers who lost their limbs, women in Pakistan whose husbands threw sulphuric acid in their faces for even blinking out of line, and she wanted to end her life over a man? Although it paled in comparison, however, it made sense _to her_.

"He was my life," she said, with no hint of reprimand despite being under scrutiny, "He was everything to me. We'd been through so much together and, and I believed... I believed in stupid fairy tales about being together forever. I was so good to him, always. Yet he goes and does this to me."

The young man's arm slid around her shoulders, instantly making her recoil in disgust, more because she welcomed it than the fact he was brazenly toying with her. Lust after him she might, but that didn't mean she would let him take her for an idiot.

Unfortunately he wasn't taking no for an answer and immediately tried again, this time whispering in her ear "it's OK. Don't fight me". She had a feeling it wasn't a request; he still had the tweezers, and strength that far surpassed hers.

Her entire body tensed at the otherwise friendly gesture, the skin on her neck and shoulders prickling. He was so invitingly warm and...

Spontaneous combustion was real, and she wished in that moment that it would happen to her.

"Let me guess; this guy's coming here and you wanted to _surprise him_?"

She disregarded the taunt, taking a deep breath and forcing herself not to look anywhere other than the santos mahogany.

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

"Congratulations," she muttered, disgruntled, knowing he'd figured her out, "you're both mind readers."

"Hah! No, that's Tom's speciality. I'm just good at guessing, really."

*_Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Don't you dare look at him._*

"So, when's he gonna be here?"

*_Shit_.*

Her mind reeled trying to decide how to reply and what the ramifications of what such a reply might be. Telling the truth didn't guarantee the duo would kill her before Jacques arrived, and neither did lying that he would arrive sooner. This was no ordinary murder burglary, and these guys didn't seem to be in any rush. Essentially, it didn't matter how she answered – Jacques was coming here and that meant he was probably doomed, whether she wanted to protect him for her own vindictive pleasure or not. The situation was already beyond her control.

So, she answered truthfully, glazed eyes still fixed on the floor which now seemed to have become a static, reddish brown liquid; "At about five o'clock. I suppose you want to kill him, too?"

"Do you want us to?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Ouch!" remarked his friend, "Mm. That's bad."

"I don't care," she continued, "I don't. Honestly. Just... whatever you do, please just..." she paused, sighing, "just kill me before he gets here. It's not like I'm going to put up any resistance."

"She doesn't get it," Peter said.

"Nope. She really doesn't. At least she said please, though."

Blondie removed his arm from Lera's shoulders, firmly but gently taking hold of her jaw and physically turning her head towards his. She didn't resist, capable of only squeezing her eyes shut as if for an unwelcome kiss.

"Lera, look at me," he whispered, without a hint of malice.

She didn't, not to deliberately defy him, but because she didn't want to, afraid of what her twisted mind would make of sharing eye contact with him. Looking into the eyes of a murderer.

"Look at me."

She did nothing.

"I'm asking you nicely, Lera."

A few protracted seconds later, she conceded, reasoning that antagonizing him might only land her in more trouble. He could do a lot to make her suffer before she died. Because, if she was afraid of anything with regard to dying, it was drawn out pain. The intense, burning pain of drowning was supposed to last no more than a minute; if she didn't comply, these young men had over eight hours to do whatever they wanted with her.

Those icy eyes bore into hers, unblinking, and he said emotionlessly, "The rules are that we kill you when and how _we_ see fit, not you."

She stared him out, a chill running through her at the horrified realization that she truly was powerless. A horrible panic started to seep in; this was it now. It was like being backed into a corner, trapped by a rabid pair of Dobermans, staring into the face of her doom and knowing that any fantastical ideals of negotiating an escape were futile. She was committed, now. Any second thoughts she may have subconsciously harbored regarding backing out of suicide – and to her knowledge, there were none - were now null and void.

She was going to die, but it might not be quick, and it might not be painless.

*_Worrying isn't going to help,_* said her rational side.

*_And you think telling me not to worry will?_* her emotional side snapped back.

Her rational side shrugged and trudged off.

"Rules?" she ventured.

Blondie let go of her jaw, confident he had her full attention.

"Guess you don't visit here that often," he mused, "judging by the fridge and cupboards-"

"What are you-"

"Sshh, Lera. Listen, please. It's not very hospitable to have nothing but a bag of Dorito's. And did you know how unhealthy they are? Cancer. In. A. Bag. I'm serious. I mean, you may not give a damn about yourself, but what about your visitors? Do you think the Farbers would feed that stuff to little Gerogie?"

"They wouldn't _now_," his partner chimed in, with something verging on macabre glee.

No...they hadn't...? Please, no. They had to be messing with her. Had to be.

"Or their friend Jenny," 'Tubby' continued; "She was watching her figure anyway."

"Yeah. Not sure if she was the type to avoid them in principle – unlike those vegan nutjobs the Thompsons, and Betsy on her carb-free diet – but that Jenny was certainly watching her figure. You should take a leaf out of her book, Tubby."

If she wasn't paralysed by utter shock and horror, she would have clapped a hand over her mouth. This was beyond a nightmare, worse than anything she could have expected. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't.

But why couldn't it?

Not little Georgie. No. No.

"You didn't...?" she spluttered, nearly choking on her own words.

"Oh, we did," replied her tormentor eagerly, "and we have proof, too."

"Yep!" Peter seconded him with an animated nod, retrieving a cell phone from his pocket and pressing a few buttons. He stood up, moving towards Lera and extending the device in her direction; "The quality's not always the best but you get the gist. Here-"

"No!" she protested, shaking her head vigorously.

She felt physically sick, and laughably it was only the sensation of bile once again rising in her throat that cured her paralysis. Before she could even contemplate it she was up, bunching her dress at her side, and making for the door, not even thinking if her attackers were in pursuit or not. She reached the hall and turned toward the stairs, but in her haste let her dress go, tripping over the hem and going sprawling forward. She hadn't even toppled over when a cruel hand grabbed her by one flailing arm, spun her round and used the force of the momentum to toss her to the floor. She landed on her side, her right shoulder taking the brunt of the fall. Pain flared, and the bile that had risen got forced back down as she choked out a yelp. Her blonde attacker offered no respite, immediately swooping forward and hauling her to her feet, then grasping her from behind in a bear hug. Instinct took over and she thrashed about in his grasp, kicking and screaming like a displeased cat.

"Hey!" he yelled shrilly, whilst dragging her back into the living room, "Hey! Hey! Stop it! Fucking stop it and calm down!"

Temporarily blinded by fury and revulsion, she ignored him.

"You calm the fuck down or I'll hurt you even worse!" he snarled, "Do you hear me?! Stop it NOW!"

Fortunately he got through to her that time, and she slackened.

"That's right. Good," he said coldly, as she let him drag her back to the vacant sofa and unceremoniously fling her down onto it.

"She went for the stairs?" his friend asked.

"Yeah," Blondie replied, sighing heavily as he sat down next to him, leaning back and splaying his legs in an overt gesture of masculine dominance.

"Ugh. I just don't get it," the shorter boy said, "Even if the door's unlocked, they always go for the stairs. Unanimously. If there's one thing to learn from horror movies its-"

"-Don't go for the stairs."

"-Don't go for the stairs."

"Don't go that way!" the blonde boy quipped.

"-Never go that way!"

"-Never go that way!"

The boys laughed, a sound that nearly turned Lera's stomach. Life wasn't fair, but this was downright obscene. The Farbers were dead, the Thompsons were dead, Jenny and the Ebners were dead, and soon she and Jacques would be dead too, yet here these young men were reciting quotes from Labyrinth.

*_And you still wanted to-_*

*_Shut up!_*

"I lament, I really do," said Blondie.

"Mmm hmm. But there's always next time."

"We can but hope."

Blondie exhaled audibly, sitting back up and refining his posture.

"You didn't need to do that, Lera," he admonished, looking virtually crestfallen, "I thought we were getting along so well?"

Pulling herself back up into a sitting position, Lera did nothing but scowl at him.

"Suffice it to say – after that little diversion - I've never seen a kitchen so badly stocked."

"There's a 7-11 ten miles north," she replied sourly.

A broad grin spread across her tormentor's face; "Nice try!" he congratulated her, followed by two hard, slow claps, "A for effort, don't you think Tom?"

"Definitely."

"I didn't mean both of you," she mumbled.

"Obviously," the slimmer boy countered her, "you're a smart woman after all."

"Mensa's finest," added his friend.

She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her rise to their taunts. If she was capable of anything right now, it was that. She would sit and seethe, suffer and stew, just as she had done with Jacques, but she would never let them know sticks and stones did break her bones. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

One thing she couldn't fight, however, was morbid curiosity. Not that she expected a straightforward answer or even any sort of answer at all, but better to ask and remove all doubt than stay silent and wait, wondering. Besides, she had a feeling they wouldn't be so forthcoming with the information of their own accord. So she asked them, wearily;

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why? Ugh.." Blondie groaned, with a dramatic eye roll, "You tell her, Tom."

"Everyone assumes there has to be a reason," said the boy in his now characteristic plaintive tone, looking at her like a good-natured physician about to deliver bad news to a patient, "But why does there always have to be a reason? Because it's logical?"

"That's right, Tom. Because everything's _logical_. Because the law of causation says so. We're all conditioned into thinking that for every action there's a reaction, and that every effect must have a cause. Things cannot exist without an explanation as to how. Well, sorry to have to break it to you _Lera,_ but occasionally some things defy explanation."

"Like ESP and psychokenisis."

"Exactly. Like ESP and psychokenisis... or mind over matter, in lamens' terms. Psychokenisis, that is. I'm sure you know what ESP is. So, to answer your question: you ask us why we're doing this; we say, why not?"

His words stung her like a poison-tipped whip. Expecting nothing couldn't have prepared her for this. In fact, no justification, however flimsy, could. She'd known it would be bad, but this was worse than she could have ever imagined.

Lera's heart sunk. Gliding down, down, further into the pitch blackness of a bottomless abyss. She hung her head, eyes glazing over. Whether they were telling the truth or not, it was unfathomable to her how anyone could treat, or even conceive of treating, such heinous acts with such casual indifference. She couldn't comprehend it, and knew there was no point trying. Sitting mere feet away from the epitome of pure evil – two people who killed simply because they could – everything now seemed pointless, futile and stupid. She would have laughed, cried, or even vomited, if she could muster the energy.

"Aww come on! Don't be like that!" Blondie goaded her with saccharine ebullience.

*_Shut up_,* she thought, *_Please just shut up._*

"You did ask," his friend reminded her, his tone just as nauseatingly sweet.

She closed her eyes, but just as quickly opened them again, all of a sudden strangely reviled by the sensation of tear-sodden lashes against clammy skin. Everything felt abhorrent; the denim against her torso and legs, the polished hardwood at her soles, even the hair framing her face, the cloying, bitter taste in her mouth. Everything itched and chafed and repulsed her. Worse yet, though... worse yet...

*_No. STOP IT._*

There was hate sex, and then there was irredeemably depraved perversion. This was unnatural and wrong, beyond any possible vindication.

"Lera?"

Why in that moment she didn't know, but something snapped; despite trying to look elsewhere, her gaze turned mutinous, unnervingly finding its way straight back to his, and unable to look away. She despised him for it, for what he roused in her. She didn't want to be reminded not only of how difficult it was to reconcile his pretty boy good looks with his not so pretty nature - even though her rational side kept stating how this wasn't a Disney movie where the villains had to look the part – but also of the moral quandary he roused in her. It defied logic – or at least, any logic she thought she possessed – how she could even begin to feel anything but terror and outright revulsion. It simply did not make sense.

Then in a eureka moment it hit her why, in fact, it made perfect sense; why, instead of being wholly unnatural, it was the most natural thing in the world. Humans were flawed creatures who wanted vengeance when wronged, and she had been wronged.

Trapped in her tormentor's gaze, she felt the strength that had deserted her begin to trickle back, albeit only a little. As long as she was allowed to live, there was hope. The boys may win this game, but if she played her cards right, she could get even with the one man who really deserved it.

"In fact, it's a good thing you did ask," Blondie continued, his sidekick nodding along, "because that leads nicely into what I was just going to say:"

He paused for dramatic effect, gaze not leaving hers. Peter began tapping his palms on his bare knees in an impromptu drum roll, and then ceasing, handing back over to his friend. In other circumstances they would have been a decent little comedy act.

"Let's... make a bet!"

* * *

**AN:**

**Reviews are what a writer lives for, eh ;) Even hacky ones like myself. I'd love to know what you readers think, and any CONSTRUCTIVE criticism you may have.**


	4. Chapter 3

**AN: **

_**July 9 UPDATE: Normally I'm a crazy stickler for detail, but it appears I have lapses. Oh dear. I completely forgot that Jenny was the daughter of Fred and Eva Thompson, and alluded to her instead as a separate neighbor who was close both in proximity and relations to the Farbers and the Thompsons. It serves as no detriment to the plot of this story, but I apologize nevertheless. **_

_Resemblance to any other Funny Games fics is purely coincidental. _

_For those who don't get the ref, Peter, Paul and Mary were a folk group formed in the 60's._

_Thank you to Nik216 and crywolf for the thoughtful reviews. And a big fudge you to all you horrible evil ungrateful -insert derrogatory term here- who are reading and not reviewing. May you rot in hell and be forced to eat funazushi for all eternity. Ok, I jest, but a few more reviews would be nice. I do bribes, you know ;) _

_**Disclaimer:** _

_I regret nothing. I own nothing. Michael Haneke owns my tush._

* * *

"Now, normally we make bets with people who, you know, want to live and... The good news, however, is that we're adaptable, so we can modify this bet to fit around you."

"I guess I should feel special, then, right?" Lera grumbled with surly sarcasm.

Had there been loved ones at risk, she would have thought twice about retaliating. For once she felt fortunate about not having a womb. Movie logic allowed heroes feisty retorts without fear of reprisal, but reality was vastly different. In real life, blows impeded you, wounds and injuries didn't miraculously heal, and you pissed yourself in fear. If you were able to think rationally at all – which often wasn't the case when trauma overtook - you played along and watched your tongue. All Lera needed was to live long enough to exact revenge on Jacques, which seemed to coincide at least in part with her invaders' plans; she could afford the risk. Be grateful for small mercies, indeed.

This bet didn't sound good, though.

Paul flashed her a toothy grin, then turned to his friend; "I like this one, Tom. She's got spirit."

"Yeah," said Peter, nodding, "she's fun."

"So what's this bet?" Lera prompted them, to her immense joy managing to sound far less worried than she actually was.

"And," continued the blonde boy, "she learns quickly. I think we struck lucky here."

"Except she's got no food, but I guess we can let that slide."

Blondie rolled his eyes, giving a derisive shake of the head, before addressing his victim;

"OK, the time now is...Tubby?"

"8:31."

"And loverboy... Lera, what's your boyfriend's name, by the way?"

"Jacques," she replied emotionlessly, although it stung to even say his name. She reckoned she could say it repeatedly until the name itself became nothing but formless noise, and the effect would be no different – because it was him.

"Oh, French?"

"Quebecois."

"OK. So, Frenchie is going to arrive around...er... five, did you say, Lera?"

Lera nodded.

"Right, well... Given that you want to off yourself, and I presume Frenchie doesn't, we bet that he'll be dead within 12 hours after he arrives. You, however... we're gonna bet you'll outlive him."

That, Lera hadn't anticipated – although, to be fair, she hadn't anticipated anything; there was no telling where the duo would take things – and for all her seething resentment, hearing her fiancé's doom vocalized stirred a churning nausea in her stomach. Until that moment it had seemed simultaneously real and unreal; although she had acknowledged it on one level it hadn't properly sunk in. Now, however, the words were said and there was no going back. Jacques, the man to whom she had given six years and her everything, would be murdered today, and that wasn't what she wanted. She hated him, she loved him, she wanted to make him sorry, but she didn't want him to die. Instincts long suppressed by antipathy rose up, and before she knew it she was sobbing hopelessly again, desperate to rail at her attackers yet immobilized by a noxious mix of emotions.

"Taking it like a champ, eh," Paul mocked.

"Shut up," Lera spat, fixing him with the most violent stare she could muster, before realizing that such a reaction was probably what her tormentors wanted. Fuck it, it didn't matter any more. Everything was stupid and pointless and ultimately futile.

Yet, why did some little determined voice protest otherwise - protest that she had to calm down, had to try, had to stay with it and keep fighting back in whatever way possible? This was real, and if she didn't pull herself together things could get a lot worse. Whether it was pointless or not, she wouldn't know unless she tried.

But was there even any point in that?, she countered herself.

What was the point in thinking at all? Why not just accept her and Jacques' fate and let whatever would happen just happen?

No. No.

Her mind swung giddily back and fourth repeatedly, to the point of making her want to scream and thwack her head against the nearest hard surface. She just wanted it all to end – her own mind was driving her crazy before the boys had even done anything.

Somehow her logical side won out, quelling the tears and managing to get a handle on her spinning thoughts. 8:31. Roughly eight and a half hours before Jacques would arrive. Then twelve hours... no, within twelve hours, which could mean anything. So, eight and a half hours; surely that was long enough to figure out something? There had to be a way, she thought, hoping against hope. It didn't matter how minimal the odds. She couldn't give in without trying.

The blonde boy merely smirked, relaxing back into the sofa. The depraved part of Lera's psyche, which seemed to have gone rogue and was now operating independent of any rationality, focused on how his shorts rode up to expose his lean, toned thighs.

"I'm asking you, please," she continued, slowly and in a lowered tone, "don't kill him. Do what you want with me; just leave Jacques alone. You killed the Farbers, the Ebners, Jenny, the Thompsons... me, soon..."

Neither boy blinked as she reeled off the list, nor displayed any facet of emotional response, not even gratification. She wondered whether this little homicidal jaunt, clearly apropos of nothing, was something they did for kicks or had become no more than a psuedo-sociopathic reflex to them. Either way, it was bad enough. People bullied others for fun since forever, the technological age had heralded an entirely new anti-social culture, and mindless carnage proliferated in movies, gangster culture and video games; but this was even worse, somehow. Probably because it was happening to her.

"And you've got... loads more households to choose from. You don't need to kill Jacques. He'll suffer enough seeing me dead."

Although she knew it was unlikely to work, there was nothing to lose by chancing it.

"Oh Lera," Paul sighed wistfully, "are you really that dumb? Come on."

"You don't need to kill him."

"That's debatable."

"Yeah," Peter interjected, "we made a bet. We can't just go back on it like that."

"This is crazy," she muttered, appalled with the boys' warped logic, "you didn't even need to make a-"

Paul shushed her gently, and then, with a sympathetic tilt of the head, continued sweetly; "Make it easy on yourself, Lera; you don't need to burden yourself with pointless questions. The bet is on, and that's all you need to know. We make a bet and it's final; that's one rule we have to abide by."

"You don't need to kill him."

"Lera, please. Just stop it. You're getting all het up about something outside of your control. Do yourself a favor, for your own sake. Otherwise there's duct tape."

"She might enjoy the duct tape," his friend mused.

"That's true. Not sure why but I get the feeling this one's a bit kinky."

He had seen it, for sure. Felt it, probably. Those moments of close proximity, biting eye contact, and skin on skin, in which despite everything, she had betrayed herself. He knew it, and he was playing on it.

Yet, Lera managed to remain unresponsive. She wouldn't give him that. Not yet. She had already played into their hands enough so far.

"Like Jenny."

"I can't believe that Jenny woman, honestly... Lera, did you know – well, obviously you didn't – that your neighbor Jenny wanted Tom and I to... well... you'd never guess from looking at her but let's just say she was too extreme even for cougarville."

"She propositioned us."

"She did. But neither of us would touch that with the CN Tower, so-"

"We have standards."

"He's right. We do."

*You think you're so funny, don't you?* she scowled inwardly.

No doubt they were joking, yet ludicrously at those words Lera found herself wondering if she was to their standards. Her stomach lurched once again, for innumerable reasons. It was then that she noticed her bladder, too, was feeling the effects of the three black coffees she had downed just to remain awake; well, she could hardly commit suicide in her sleep.

"I need to go to the bathroom," she stated.

"Tom,will you do the honors?" Blondie asked, motioning to his friend.

Lera shook her head. Blondie shot her a perfunctory half smile, shaking his head right back at her.

She sighed, but persisted; "Please? You've seen the downstairs toilet yourself. The window's far too small to escape through and there's nothing in there I could use as a weapon."

The pair exchanged a wry glance.

"You know, Lera," said Blondie, "talking of weapons, over the last two days we've amassed quite a collection. Now, normally we're completely by the book, and we never bring them with us on our visits-"

"Because that would be an unfair advantage."

"Precisely, Tom. Our games may be dirty, but we pride ourselves on playing nice, unless there's no other alternative. We go in empty handed and make use of whatever resources are available. You, however, are a special case, so – and you should feel privileged here, because we don't take bending the rules lightly - we'll make a special exception for you."

"It's not against the rules to bend the rules, if you have to."

"So..." he said, leisurely standing up, "I'll leave you with Tom and his paradoxes while I go and get our little friends."

Little friends. Other than the aforementioned duct tape, that meant only one thing.

"But I need to go-"

"No-one's stopping you, _darling_. Tom's not bad toilet company, I promise. He's a very accomplished..er..escort, in those matters. Unless you want me to accompany you?"

She flashed him her best unimpressed face. He gave a disgustingly adorable little chuckle-snort.

"I'm going to need the keys to your gate and car. Please don't waste anyone's time lying to me, OK?"

"They're all in my jacket pocket, in the porch," Lera complied vacantly.

"Fantastic, thanks!" her tormentor replied buoyantly, "See you in ten! Don't get naughty with her, Tom."

'Tom' beamed and saluted his superior. With that, the blonde boy strode briskly out the room, the two remaining occupants gazing after him.

Silence prevailed for a few seconds, before Lera heard the jangle of keys and then the front door open and slam shut. She was still staring in the direction of the empty doorway, listening for the revving of her Toyota Camry when a soft voice snapped her out of her daze;

"We're gonna have to visit someone for food, you know."

She turned back to face the slightly stocky boy.

"Of course, you'll have to come with us."

"Someone living, or someone dead?" she heckled, throwing all caution to the wind. Hearing about murder victims was one things; seeing them first hand was another entirely.

Peter smiled in droll amusement; "That's why we like you, Lera. You've got a wonderful sense of humor."

"And I suppose, if they're dead, you'll grace me with a guided tour, too? Or several, if you're feeling exceptionally good natured?"

Her guard hooted with laughter, his shoulders shaking with the exertion.

"Too bad Paul's not here," he said when he'd recovered, "He'd be in stitches."

Lera forced an indifferent façade.

"You're kind of his bitch, aren't you?" she remarked pointedly, out of a sudden dire, blindly self-destructive urge to test how far she could push the young man before he lashed out. Although the moment she said it, she was already regretting it and mentally kicking herself. With the exception of Jacques, she had never been the best at holding her tongue.

Blessedly, her companion didn't take the bait, but instead fix her with a placid expression as jarring as his sot voice.

"If you're trying to get a rise out of me," he said, "it won't work."

"But, don't you ever get tired of being ordered about like a.. a little kid?"

"You're just wasting your breath."

"Did he force you into this? Is this what you really want?"

"Please stop asking questions. You know it won't get you anywhere."

Lera exhaled audibly, relenting. Attempting to create a division between the pair would probably be useless; her predecessors had likely tried the same thing, and still lost the game. Furthermore, for all she knew, their relationship dynamic could simply be posturing. Perhaps they really were part of an am-dram society?

The two stared each other out, before the boy continued; "Do you still need to go to the bathroom?"

She nodded.

Peter stood up, and she followed.

She could have made a run for it then, but immediately deduced Blondie had most likely taken the house keys, too. Even if she ran to her bedroom upstairs, where she had left her cellphone, there was nothing she could barricade the door with, and jumping out the window would only result in a painful injury, or several. Besides, it didn't warrant risking the repercussions. She had been lucky so far, and she didn't want that luck to change, especially if she was to actualize her plan.

*That is, assuming you meet his standards,* chimed her self consciousness, *you might repulse him enough to put him off the idea entirely.*

But her plan would mean certain death for Jacques. Was getting revenge really worth getting him murdered? She could still chance an escape. Maybe, maybe she could knee or kick her attacker in the groin and earn a valuable minute to call Jacques and tell him not to come.

But then her death would be for nothing, and he would get away with being a cheating bastard. How she could be so petty she couldn't fathom, but neither did she want to care.

She didn't run.

* * *

Fortunately, Peter allowed her her privacy, waiting outside the door whilst she used the toilet. Whilst inside, Lera found herself scrutinizing the small cubicle, as if she were a visitor herself, for anything that she could possibly use as a weapon. Survival instincts died hard. As expected – and to her bizarre relief - she found nothing. The toiletries, sanitary devices and medicine cabinet were in the upstairs bathroom. Both she and Jacques hated room spray, so there wasn't even that.

Once back in the living room, she was ushered with incongruous courtesy to her seat.

"He calls you Tubby, but you're hardly fat," she said, hoping on the off chance that appealing to his vanity might work. "I'd say you're in pretty good shape, actually."

Unsurprisingly, the brown-haired boy ignored the compliment, instead asking considerately if Lera minded him watching the TV.

*Damn it. I was being nice, you little prick. I even meant it.*

She gave an impartial shrug, which her guard took for a yes.

The remaining ten minutes were spent in silence, Lera closing her eyes and letting the anodyne babble from the set flow into one seamless mess, surrounding and numbing her. The slamming of a door, followed by an impressive wolf whistle, brought her back, opening her eyes in time to see Paul jog – yes, jog – leisurely back into the room, a slate-grey backpack slung over his right shoulder.

"Hey Tom," he chirped.

"Hey Jerry."

"Hey Lera."

Lera glanced at him, but said nothing.

"Why the silent treatment?" he replied, feigning hurt, "Did Tom do something to annoy you? Are you bored of him? Are you bored of _us_?"

She maintained her stance.

The tall boy sighed, slinging the bag off his shoulder and sitting down beside his friend.

"Well if you _are_ bored you're in luck, because as you can see, I've got my bag of tricks here, and what's in this bag is really going to.. you know.. liven up the party, as they say."

He proceeded to unzip the backpack and retrieve one item.

"One roll of duct tape," he announced, handing the backpack to Peter.

"And one Kimber 1911, with Federal HST ammo," added his friend proudly, fishing out a gleaming pistol.

Her adrenaline spiked.

"Kimber 1911 and Federal HST? You're sure, Tubby? Because, we really do have to be sure about these things."

"That's why I said it."

"Right. You didn't just want an excuse to woo the lady with your technical expertise?"

Nonchalant-faced, the shorter boy shrugged.

"OK. I believe you, Tubby. Millions wouldn't, but I do. Anyway, Lera... as I'm sure you're aware, it's not a proper bet – it's no fun - unless there's some element of risk... right? But currently we're two against one, so we have to wait until Frenchie gets here before we put that risk into play. It's only fair. So, until then, I'd advise you not to get any ideas about running away. I think we've already established that you're not going anywhere, but just in case you change your mind.. well, let's just say your knee, Peter's little buddies. Got it? And trust me, he may be fat-"

"-Shut up!"

"-but he's a dead shot. Furthermore, you won't die instantly from an injury to the kneecap, but you'll be in excruciating pain. Agony. Do you follow?"

She nodded, the sight of the gun putting any residual thoughts of escape to sleep. This was it now; she really wasn't going anywhere. Yet, somehow, in a way it felt inexplicably liberating, and even oddly calming. No longer did she have to concern herself with hypotheses and recriminations about Jacques' fate. It wasn't her fault - at least, not any more.

"Awesome. So, what do you wanna do now?"

"How should I know?" Lera muttered, so meekly it was almost a whisper, knowing she would have to play it extra safe lest the guys decide to shoot or gag her for any opportune reason.

Her tormentors exchanged a brief glance.

"OK," continued Paul, "well I think, first of all we need to sort out the food situation. No-one can work on an empty stomach, you know? So, we're going to play a game called.. hmm..."

"Food," Peter interjected.

"Too short."

"Why does it need to be longer than that?"

"Singular nouns do not game titles make, Tubby."

"Who says? Sounds fine to me."

"If you're gonna have a noun as a game title it should be a part of a noun phrase. You can thank me for explaining you the the finer points of grammar later."

"I think 'Food' sounds fine."

"It has to be something we agree on."

"OK, how about 'Let's Go And Get Food'?"

"Too vague."

"What's so vague about that? If I said 'Let's Go Visit The Neighbors To Get Food', you'd say that was too long."

"I'd say 'Let's Go Visit The Neighbors To Get Food' is too long, yes, but '_Visiting_ the Neighbors' sounds perfect. Not too vague, not too specific. So thanks for that, Beavis."

Assuming all their games were given titles, Lera wondered if they went through similar processes every time.

Slightly peeved, his comrade replied, "You're welcome, Butthead."

Tom and Jerry, Beavis and Butthead... Peter and Paul (and Mary, now, almost, she thought with absurd hilarity) the roles reversed, perhaps to give the shorter boy an illusion of power he clearly didn't have; not that he was powerless, but he was obviously not the one in control. Or perhaps for no reason at all.

"So, Lera, that's the game we're going to play: Visiting the Neighbors. I'm sure you know what that means, hmm?"

Shit. No. Please no.

"She asked that while you were away, actually," Peter informed him, "and she guessed correct."

"Told you she was smart."

Peter nodded.

"Now," Paul addressed her, leaning forward eagerly, "because you're being a really good sport, you can decide who those neighbors are. The Ebners are farthest away but they've got the best food. Betsy was on a carb free diet, but Robert wasn't. Amazing selection of antipasti, artisan bread, and home-made frozen yogurt."

"My God, the frozen yogurt."

"OK Tubby, don't have an orgasm."

"I'm just saying it was amazing. Apricot and pomegranate with crystallized ginger. Oh my God.."

"You're right, it was amazing. But please, control yourself. Ladies hate premature ejaculation, you know that."

"What? I.. ugh. Fine, forget it."

Paul snickered, then continued, to Lera; "Jenny's the closest but had nothing but health food with a side order of extra bland. Then there are the Farbers, and finally the Thompsons. Both so-so, not bad but they wouldn't be my first choice."

"I can't," Lera said quietly, shaking her head.

"Can't what? Choose?"

"Can't go. I'm sorry, I can't..."

"It's not an option."

"Please."

"Nuh uh."

"Why not just... tie me up with duct tape and go on your own? Cut the landline, take my cellphone-"

"No," he stated firmly, tone reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter.

"But I.. please-"

"Lera, for your own sake, I am telling you emphatically to knock that shit off. Right now. I don't like to see you humiliating yourself."

*Fuck you*, she thought, casting her gaze towards the floor as she felt the tears begin to well up for the third time.

"I'm going to get a cup of coffee for Peter and myself, and you, if you want one. No arsenic, I swear. If you haven't decided by the time I return, Peter and I will have to decide for you, OK?"

"I don't want a cup of coffee," she mumbled to the santos mahogany.

"How about one with arsenic, then?"

*You're not funny.*

Silence.

Peter yawned.

"Last offer."

Santos mahogany. Santos mahogany. Santos fucking mahogany. A Janka rating of 2,200, and 18% harder than Hickory floors, the hardest of North American hardwoods, apparently. Jacques always had to choose the best.

"Fair enough," Blondie conceded, "but don't accuse me of not being generous. OK then, better start thinking. Tick tock!"


	5. Chapter 4

_**AN:**_

_Thanks to crywolf and blondified for the reviews._

_Credit goes to Nik216 for helping with the nautical content of this chapter._

_Not that it's of any consequence really, but I've had to modify a few minor technical details. In the film, Betsy's house appears to have no lock or doorbell (the lock is probably there but it's not visible). These were necessary for the plot of this fic, so I wrote them in._

_If you don't know, the lady in the radiator and the song she sings, which is a rendition of the Pixies' "In Heaven Everything Is Fine", is a reference to the David Lynch surrealist film Eraserhead. The severed ear that she drops on the lawn is a reference to another Lynch film, "Blue Velvet". The Lady in the Radiator, as she's called, and her song, signify that everything's fine in your fantasies because you can control them in the way that you cannot control reality. The gruesome, severed ear on the pristine lawn represents the murky underbelly of a superficially neat, decent society._

_**Disclaimer:**_

_Resemblances to any other Funny Games fics are purely coincidental._

_Nothing is owned, nor is it regretted. Haneke gets first dibs on my culo._

* * *

Sweeping past so blissfully, the pleasant breeze would have offered temporary relief from the mental and physical discomfort of being in the company of two serial killers. Would have, if it she hadn't, absurdly, felt bothered by neither serial killer talking to her in over twenty minutes. After she had made that harrowing decision, the last thing Paul had said to her was "see? That wasn't so hard, was it?". Peter had whooped and done a disconcertingly hilarious victory dance for his own benefit, but hadn't thanked her for choosing the neighbors with the best food.

Following that, they had as good as ignored her, save for gesturing that she stand up, and obliging that she take a seat. She had listened to them discuss advanced golfing techniques and the evils of Ayn Rand, alongside other trivialities, and watched them rig and work the daysailer with accomplished ease, all the while feeling like a horribly conspicuous lump. For all the ridiculousness that it was, being ignored seemed somehow worse than being taunted. Whether it was a test to see how long she could endure being on mute, or a manipulation to make her want or crave their attention, she didn't allow herself to care.

Thus, sensing that she was in no immediate danger, she decided to put an end to her conspicuous lump-ery. For the moment at least, it was safe to talk. At the first break in conversation, she asked in a sardonic tone; "So, do you plan on killing everyone in the vicinity?"

To her right, by the shroud, Peter snickered, whilst to her left, working the tiller, his taller buddy looked only mildly amused.

"Does it matter?" Blondie replied impassively.

Despite being lucid enough to know better, sweet relief flooded through her at his reply. It didn't matter how he responded, only that he responded at all. Anything not to feel ignored.

She gave a half-hearted shrug; "No. I'm just curious."

"Well you can keep on being curious," he clipped smugly.

Had she been stronger, and even half adept at sailing – and had the desire for revenge on Jacques not refused to die - she would have considered trying to knock the pretty boy bastard into the water. Instead, the best she could do was pretend not to care.

"You just go where the wind takes you, then?" she persisted dryly.

"Hah," he chuckled derisively, "you could say that."

"You don't have any responsibilities?"

"Well, it's July. School's out, work's non existent, my folks are touring Europe and his," he jerked his head in Peter's direction, "don't care..."

"They're in the Maldives," Peter injected, somewhat downcast.

"So we're free to do what we want."

"And after this is all over? What are you going to do then? Just resume normal life?"

Blondie looked taken aback.

"Resume normal life? What do you take us for; cold blooded sociopaths? That hurts, Lera. I'm mortally offended that you would think such a thing."

"You have feelings then?" she dared, not sure whether she was joking or asking a legitimate question.

"Oh Lera, of course we do! After all this is over – whenever that may be - we're going home. Then we'll start freaking out about murdering half a neighborhood, and the War of Contrition will commence, both of us fighting for the title of Most Self Loathing, Most Remorseful. It'll be a long and gruelling battle involving lots of hysterical tears, alcohol, perhaps some male bonding, with the loser being the one to turn himself in and take all the rap. Which will inevitably be Tubby."

Peter flipped him the bird.

"Hey Tom, remember when you tried to jibe in a boat this size and the boom knocked you into the water? It can happen again, you know."

"Hey Jerry, beep you."

"See, Lera? He's so nice he doesn't even curse. Actually, I think we should forget about the War of Contrition and you just hand yourself in straight away, Tubby."

"Nah."

"Let's ask our host what she thinks, hmm?"

He cornered Lera with a penetrating gaze, to which her stomach turned a sommersault and her heart leapt into her throat. It wasn't simply fear, dread or desire, but more the fact that those eyes of steel blue were so damn piercing - unnaturally so – and the way he used them, so impossibly intense, without even looking like he was trying. That he seemed adept at not blinking, too, only added to the effect. Dear God, it gave her chills.

"Well?" he prompted, gaze still locked on hers.

She must have been staring at him like a gormless deer, but for the life of her she could not look away. Her vocal chords, too, seemed to have shut up shop. She wished the boom would knock _her_ into the water.

He snickered, turning to his friend.

Thank God.

"Oh, _hello_!" the shorter boy exclaimed, beaming.

"Hah!" cried Paul, joyfully, "I don't believe it! She's barely moved!"

"Again."

"Wow. That's so weird."

A couple hundred meters in the distance, something bright bobbed in the water. Canary yellow, identical to the sailing jackets the...

Lera felt the color drain from her face, and her blood pressure shoot up.

The sloop glided smoothly forward, towards the lifeless form, the boys having already moved on to a different subject. Just like that. Lera's eyes closed of their own accord in an attempt to quell the rising panic. Her throat seemed unbearably tight. She had to stay calm. Stay calm. Just stay calm. Think rationally. There was no reason to be scared. She knew who they had murdered; this little discovery wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know.

But she didn't have to see it, though.

*Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter. You already know. And it's OK; she's out of her misery now.*

It wasn't OK. And she wasn't doing a very good job of not panicking either.

"Lera, open your eyes," Blondie ordered, coolly.

She shook her head.

"Open your eyes."

"Please don't do this."

"It puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again," Peter recited, in that ever-unnerving dulcet tone.

She shook her head again.

"He means it, Lera. We've still got the tweezers."

"We'd hate for you to lose an eye or something."

"Yeah. You've got such pretty eyes. Doesn't she, Tubby?"

"Mmm hmm. And stop calling me-"

"Methinks the ladyboy doth protest too much."

"Whatever."

What she thought was *thank you very much for the compliment, and fuck you very much, too*. What she said was nothing. What she did was comply. Losing an eye wasn't an option she wanted to risk.

*Stay calm. You can do it. You have to. Stay calm.*

"And I've gotta say," Blondie continued, as Lera's eyes opened fully, "impeccable timing. _Impeccable_."

*No...*

Seeing the body up close, face down in the water, all the panic she had worked so diligently to suppress boiled over in a keening scream. A body. A dead body. The dead – murdered – body of someone she had known and liked. Still screaming, and with instinct – ineffectual instinct - taking over, she involuntarily lunged forward and sideways toward the bow, not thinking about the lack of places to go and the possible consequences of doing so – just desperately wanting, needing, to simply get away.

"No you don't," grunted Peter with astonishing calm, seizing her the moment she moved and forcing her back into her designated spot.

She wriggled in his grasp, continuing to wail like a traumatized child, and he exerted yet more pressure onto her upper arms, squeezing them to what seemed almost like breaking point.

"Stop it," he said, with utmost calm, "and please be quiet, or we'll have to use the tweezers."

She obeyed. Peter relinquished his grip.

The sloop passed by the corpse.

"You fucking monsters!" she hissed, teary gaze flitting, agitated, between the two young men.

"Monsters?" said Blondie, eyes rapacious, "Such a dirty word from such a lovely mouth. And to think you suck Frenchie's dick with those lips."

She spat at him. Impervious, he merely rolled his eyes, wiping away her wasted effort. His supercilious composure said it all: it didn't matter what she did or tried to do, he and his friend would inevitably win. And the worst part was that she believed him.

A sudden feeling of utter defeat descended upon her, and once again she crumpled.

"Hey," he said with mock disappointment, "don't cry. Come on, please?"

Sobbing, she shot daggers at the heartless bastard.

Undeterred, he went on; "What can we do to make you feel better? Other than, you know, stopping all this – because that, we can't do. Sorry. You've been so accommodating to us, it's only fair we return the favor."

She continued glaring at him.

"You want a hug? A kiss? How about a threesome? Long time since you've had one of those, I expect. If you ever have?"

"You're disgusting," she uttered in a hushed breath.

*And you're a hypocrite,* she lambasted herself, *and a liar.* Because still, even after that truly horrifying interlude only a few seconds ago, hadn't his proposition – fake though it was - stirred something deep inside her? Just the allusion to it had been enough to lend a brush of heat to the palor of her cheeks.

If either boy had noticed, at least they were considerate enough not to call her on it.

*You've just seen a friendly acquaintance's corpse and you allow yourself to feel even slightly... _You_ are the disgusting one.*

*Means to an end, idiot,* a second voice in her head reminded her. Indeed, had there been no cheating love of her life, no compulsion for revenge, she was in no doubt her feelings would be markedly different - and then it _would_ be rape. *Besides, better to think about something pleasurable than something horrific.*

For the sake of self preservation alone, her sanity went with the second voice, however insubstantial the excuse. Dwelling on Ann's murder, or any of the duo's victims, or the possibility of rape being on the agenda, would probably lead to her losing it. Anything she could use to distract herself from it would qualify. Anything. No matter how depraved. If she could force herself to want it, all the better, and less the humiliation. By wanting and enjoying it, she could win. At least, in part.

"Actually, I take that back, completely. I forgot for a moment Tubby only fucks people he's related to."

"Like your sister?" 'Tubby' retorted, smirking.

"It doesn't count if they're comatose drunk, Beavis."

"Uh, she was non-comatose sober, Butthead."

"Is there even a word "non-comatose" or did you just make that up?"

"It's a real word-"

"Technically it's a term."

"I know that. But it's real."

"Non-committal. Nondescript. Non-functioning.. Yeah, I'll take your word for it."

"And quit trying to win the argument by distracting me."

"I wasn't."

"Whatever, Butthead. She was perfectly awake and perfectly sober and you know it. She counts."

"Ugh.. Tubby please stop reminding me that you boinked my sister. I'm sure our lovely host here doesn't want to imagine you getting up to naughties, do you, Lera? And I really do apologize for what I said about the threesome. You're right - it's disgusting. I'm very sorry."

At a complete loss, she looked down at her dress-covered knees and sandal-clad feet. Suddenly, being ignored didn't seem so terrible. She needed to calm down and try – try – to clear her head. Talking with the boys wouldn't achieve that.

Mercifully, they took her cue, picking up their discussion from where it had been interrupted several minutes ago.

Sun shining in a clear blue sky; tranquil, glossy water; refreshingly cool morning air; and unusually, not a soul in sight. On the surface it had all the makings of a perfectly blissful picture, replete with muted screams and scrubbed away blood. This was their dreadful secret. "In heaven, everything is fine," sang the lady in the radiator, dropping a severed ear on the meticulously manicured lawn and daintily skipping away.

* * *

"Yeah, she was trying to make sushi with basmati rice, wasn't she," said Peter, expression positively hopeless, as he followed Paul onto the dock. "Basmati rice."

"Rules of cooking when under the influence of mary-jane," Paul quipped, "DON'T. Just. Don't."

The two laughed.

With the boat docked and expertly de-rigged (de-rigging wasn't entirely necessary for what would likely be a short stay, but the boys had decided to, just incase), the trio made their way toward the old, charming cottage that yesterday had turned from paradise to prison for the poor Ebners (and unbeknownst to Lera, their three guests). At the glass doors, Paul produced a set of keys from the front pocket of the backpack, swiftly gaining entry. Wearing a smile that didn't reach his eyes, he gestured sweetly to Lera; "Ladies first."

Tentatively, she entered the house, her footfalls breaking the ominous silence. The curtains were open, and the light sufficiently bright to see the ugly rust-red blotches on the beige Oushak rug. No bodies, though.

Her captors followed, Paul closing but not locking the door behind him.

"Hey everybody!" he exclaimed merrily, "We're back! Bet you didn't think you'd be seeing us again, eh?"

Silence.

"So everything's A-OK at the McDouchington residence," he remarked contentedly.

"And all is right with the world."

"Yep. And by the way, Lera, just in case you were wondering, that's not blood on the rug. We were wine tasting and Tubby dropped his glass. Way to ruin a $6000 piece of fine Turkish craftmanship, Tom!"

"Whoops," muttered his friend, with cavalier poise.

Blondie rolled his eyes dismissively, then said to Lera; "His mother would put him in a coma if she found out he did that. _My_ mother would put him in a coma if she found out he did that. Such disrespect for the finer things in life."

Lera couldn't decipher whether Blondie was trying desperately to sound cultured, or mocking those who did or were.

"That's why I kill people," he said, looking earnest, "Me, personally. I see them taking their wealth for granted and it infuriates me. I'd kill Tom if he wasn't my dealer."

Peter made a 'what-can-you-do?' expression, then trundled off ahead of them.

"Not bad for a trust fund baby, eh?," Paul continued, following him, "Putting amoral, decadent society right, one family at a time."

"You're such a narcissist," said his friend, blasé.

"Not at all. I can't help it if I want to put the world right, or that I'm better than most people in every single way, and have high standards. I didn't ask to be perfect!"

They lead Lera through the pristinely-kept cottage, seemingly untouched by the rigors of the past 24 hours – no mess, no blood, no evidence of anything out of the ordinary - round the corner and down the hall, and into the surprisingly ample kitchen.

The sight that met her eyes there went some way to explaining why; the bulk of the damage must have happened here.

Surveying the carnage, a series of grotesque scenarios ran through her mind. Running wild and irrepressible. She tried to force them back, think of something else, but it was futile; like a prisoner, shackled and with eyes stitched open, she could do nothing but stand there and let the horrific images play out in their entirety. She saw the kitchen knife glinting in the artificial light as it plunged remorselessly into Robert's abdomen, heard Betsy's anguished pleas to stop, just stop, please stop, please... She saw the belt being tightened around Betsy's neck, her torso arching and legs scrambling as her face turned red, the veins standing out, fit to burst.

"Morning Captain," Paul announced, saluting the ashen-faced man in his personalized bloody lake at the foot of the counter. "Ma'am," he directed a nod to the stout woman with the makeshift collar, by the door on the opposite side of the room, who lay staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling.

If at that moment Lera could have screamed or ran, she probably would have, but now her voice and legs had also turned mutinous. For the life of her, she couldn't move or make a sound, although her heart appeared to be trying to.

*You never liked them anyway,* she reminded herself. The few times Lera had encountered them, she had found the Ebners to be one of the snootiest families in the community – shameless elitists who seemingly went out of their way to make her feel uncomfortable whilst fawning over Jacques. Well, Betsy anyway. Poor henpecked Robert just followed his wife's orders.

*But they've been _murdered_.*

*They had it coming.*

*What?!*

*They deserved it.*

*How can you be so-*

Blondie interrupted her thoughts with "We're gonna need Priscilla's bag. And Lauren's"

His friend nodded, darting out of the room.

"Who are Priscilla and Lauren?" Lera asked, subdued, listening to the clap of rubber soles against naked wood as Peter ascended the stairs.

"You're talking again!" Blondie rejoiced, bounding towards her like an over-enthusiastic 1st grader. Taking her face in his hands, and leaning in closer – eliciting a gulp from her throat and sending her mind into a spin cycle of "oh shit, oh shit, oh shit" - but luckily not touching her with any other part of his body, he whispered tenderly, "I thought we'd lost you."

She stood there, utterly rigid, noting that her flinch reflex must have shut down, too. Unfortunately, her heartbeat only ratcheted up another notch. Blondie's eyes searched hers for a few intense, drawn out moments. Lera tried to steel herself as best she could, which was pitiful at best.

"Your heart's beating so fast," he said, his voice like gossamer, "so _hard_."

Baboombaboombaboombaboom.

*Dead bodies,* she told herself, hurriedly, *think dead bodies. Quick, quick, quick!*

His right hand stroked from her face, down her neck, and past her collarbone to rest over the poor overwrought organ in her chest.

Another notch higher, baboombaboombaboombaboombaboom. Right up into her throat, into her jaw.

"My God..." he marvelled.

Jesus H Christ, that voice. The look in those eyes and the way he regarded her, pouty lips slightly parted.

*Dead bodies. Dead bodies. Robert and Betsy Ebner are lying right in front of you and they've been murdered. Murder. Horrible painful death. This boy and his friend are going to kill Jacques, for crying out loud!*

*His hand is on my heart. His hand is on my heart and he can feel it beating and he can hear it beating and he knows how nervous I am and he's trying to give me a heart attack oh shit oh shit oh shit.*

She may have exceeded his age by at least five years, but at that precise moment she was certainly the younger one emotionally. Much, much younger. She was even standing there like a child, stiff and with hands balled at her sides.

"Who are Priscilla and Lauren?" she ventured meekly, voice trembling.

With a smirk of triumph, he stepped away.

Half of her wanted to fucking kill him. The other half wanted to grab him and have him continue what he had started, even if it ended up killing her.

"Robert's sister, and son's girlfriend," he replied nonchalantly, as if nothing had just happened, putting ten feet between them as he reached the large fridge. He opened the fridge door and began studiously inspecting the contents.

"Oh."

"They're upstairs."

*With the Big Man Upstairs, no doubt.*

He didn't attempt to interest her in any further details, instead seeming far more absorbed in routing around the compartments.

A few creaks and thumps later Peter returned, a hefty, oak leather clipper bag on one shoulder and a nautical striped beach bag on the other. He joined his friend by the fridge, where they began discussing and offloading the contents.

"Want anything?" Blondie asked, turning to look at his captive, who still hadn't shifted an inch.

"I'm not hungry."

"Well you might be, later. We did bet you'd outlive Frenchie, so that's at least until 5am, roundabout."

*Why do you care so much?*

"We're just trying to make you feel more comfortable," his cohort offered, full of childlike zeal, "or less uncomfortable."

The two tittered.

"However you wanna take it really," Peter finished.

*Why? Are you going to force feed me, make me vomit and then eat it?*

"I don't want anything."

"Your funeral," said Paul with a shrug.

From the end of the hall came a faint noise that sounded like a knock at the door, and a muffled voice calling out.

The duo froze.

Again, the door rattled intrusively, and Lera could make out the distinct word "hello?".

Two identically villainous grins faced her.

"If I had a wish right now" said Peter longingly, to his friend, "it'd be-"

"Mormons."

"Mormons."

"Well, only 99.9% recurring chance that it won't be, but it doesn't hurt to dream big sometimes."

"Hmm," agreed the brown-haired boy.

Paul went to leave, deliberately brushing against his captive as he passed by and whispering, in a chillingly intimate manner, "I love it when this happens."

Whatever possessed her, she didn't know; but despite the sense of dread beginning to rise again, she followed him, as if entranced. Behind her she heard the now familiar sound of a backpack being unzipped.

Just prior to turning the corner back into the living room, Blondie paused, turning 180 degrees to face her. This time, he looked decidedly menacing.

"Got it, Lera?" he uttered darkly.

She nodded in tacit agreement. Yes, she did. Completely. She had no choice but to play along.

At the door stood a middle aged man and woman, wearing breezy summer garb and expectant expressions which rapidly changed to bewilderment. They didn't look familiar, but then again Lera hadn't met everyone in the vicinity.

Paul opened the door.

"Hello," said the murderer, fixing them with a charming smile.

"Hello," replied the woman, regarding Paul, then Lera, then Paul again. Obviously she didn't recall Lera either.

The man – presumably her husband – stared only at Paul.

"I'm sorry," the woman continued, "we were expecting Betsy or Robert."

"Oh, they're in the kitchen. Robert hurt himself and Betsy's tending to him, so they sent us. The others are still asleep. I'm a good friend of Robert's son..."

*Another one? Jesus..*

"...and Lera," he draped his arm around her, to which Lera tried not to squirm, "is my cousin. We only arrived last night."

"Oh," the woman muttered, looking confused, "I don't think Betsy mentioned you...?"

"She wouldn't have. It was an impromptu visit really."

The couple glanced at each other.

"It's a long story, but suffice it to say we're having to intrude on the family for a while. We're very grateful for it."

"Ah."

"Do you... Sorry, I don't really know what's going on... Betsy and Robert never told us their schedule, so..."

"That's OK. We're the Windsors. We live half a mile away. We're having a garden party and they said they'd be there for 8:30 to help us set up. They're never late, so we called their landline, their cells, but no-one was answering. And then we became worried, so we came round to check they were all right."

Mr. Windsor was looking at Lera now, the beginnings of suspicion in his grey eyes.

*Please, go away,* she thought at him, although not daring to emote it in any way. *Please, please...*

"Oh, they're fine," Paul mollified them, "we did hear the landline ringing, but we were all busy tending to Robert, and Betsy told us to leave it. The cell phones must be upstairs because we certainly didn't hear them. It was just a complete disaster and everyone was so flustered. I'm surprised the other three managed to sleep through it, actually. But please, come in. I doubt they'll be able to make the garden party but I'm sure they'd love to see you."

The three exchanged perfunctory smiles – although Lera couldn't muster one – and Paul ushered the Windsors inside. It took all Lera possessed not to yell "no!" at the top of her lungs.


	6. Chapter 5

_**AN:**_

_Thanks for the reviews. You guys (gals?) are brilliant._

_A note to Lola: there may be something on the horizon. Please stay tuned._

_Also, a quick note about the plot: the whole point of Funny Games (US) is that the antagonists could be anyone, from anywhere. Their history and personal details are irrelevant. (Lola and Nik216: it doesn't matter who they are. What matters is their plan ;) ) My reason for disclosing such apparently superfluous information, however, will become relevant in later chapters._

_**Disclaimer:**_

_Resemblance to any other Funny Games fics is purely coincidental. _

_I regret nothing. I own nothing. Michael Haneke could put my backside in a coma._

_And in reference of what's to come in this chapter; I don't hate hipsters. Some of my best friends are hipsters. Got it? ;)_

* * *

"I'm Paul, by the way," said the murderer, extending his hand to the woman, who shook it readily. The man followed suit.

"Kathleen."

"Henry."

"Lera's already been introduced, but..."

Lera managed a weakly pleasant expression, forgetting to offer her hand. Despite the omission, Kathleen seemed fooled, but Henry's astute gaze lingered on hers for longer than was necessary, making her feel oddly vulnerable... and guilty.

*This isn't my fault!* one voice cried.

*Please get spooked and leave!* another one thought at him with all her might. *God, PLEASE!*

"Please, come through," Paul continued.

*You could say something now,* insisted one of the voices, *invent something about modifications to the boat. Mention the rug!*. A second one countered it with obvious reasons as to why that was foolish. She had at best five seconds to come up with a better plan before they departed for the kitchen, but nothing came, and she found herself being accosted by Blondie and placed at the head of the group. He cast a fleeting, sideways glance at her, eyes betraying nothing; the action in itself was enough to make his point. She made no attempt to defy him.

"When is the garden party?" Paul enquired.

"7 o'clock. More a garden soiree, actually," Kathleen replied pleasantly. "But Henry and I are going to be out most of the day at a friend's wedding, so we wanted to get as much set up in the morning as possible so that we didn't have to rush when we got back."

"I see."

In addition to the ever-present dread, a stinging sense of dismay befell Lera as they walked, like the inaugural incline of a very steep rollercoaster that an acrophobic had decided to chance in the hope it would cure their fear of heights. Unlike the rollercoaster, though, she didn't know exactly what was coming; only that, whatever it was, it would be awful. A feeling of giddiness crept over her, and for a moment she feared she would stumble. Somehow, the worry for what the boys would do to her for apparently pulling such a stunt – they wouldn't know it wasn't deliberate – managed to right the problem.

The kitchen was three seconds away, and drawing closer fast. Three seconds. Two. One and a half. One. Half one...

Paul was first into the room, blocking the Windsors' view. Lera was second. The next few seconds – it couldn't have been more than twenty – passed like some sort of hypnopompic hallucination: She barely had time to notice Peter emerging from the wall at her right, Kimber in hand, before she tripped over attempting to turn round and face the oncoming guests. As she fell, seemingly in dreamlike slow motion, she watched the shorter boy approach Henry, whose eyes missed Robert's corpse but grew wide as they clocked Betsy's. Paul was somewhere behind her, probably at the cutlery draw, judging by the sound of metallic clinking. Peter strode confidently right up to the taller man, who, too distracted by the sight in front of him, appeared utterly oblivious to the fact of a pistol barrel being pressed point blank against his neck. Peter pulled the trigger, firing directly into the common carotid artery. The shrill sound rang out in Lera's ears - having never heard a gunshot up close, she was surprised how painfully loud it was - as Henry's hand immediately flew to his neck to cover the spurting wound; it wasn't quick enough to avoid the inevitable splatter onto Peter's pristine white t-shirt.

Peter skipped out the way towards the center of the room, watching Henry stumble silently sideways in the direction of his friend's body, then collapse onto the linoleum, eyes rolling back in his head, instinctively clutching his injury. Briefly immobilized by shock and horror, his wife, standing less than a foot inside the room, did nothing but emit a pitiful squeak. Her gaze darted from her dying husband and his friend, to the strangled woman by the opposite door, to the two murderers and then finally to Lera, who had only hit the ground a split second ago and hadn't even registered the impact. A look of horrible confliction flashed across Kathleen's features, and Lera waited for the woman's instinct to kick back in.

"Well, run!" Blondie prompted, amusedly. Lera craned her neck round to see him less than a meter behind her, casually brandishing a chef's knife.

The woman took one more harrowed look at her husband, before turning on her heel and fleeing. Peter sprinted after her, firing at her back. Lera's eardrums seemed to wince. A millisecond later they were gone from her view. A howl of pain erupted from the woman, and then another gunshot, and finally an undignified thump. One more gunshot, and then a lengthy pause, before a muffled sweeping sound preceded Peter's re-entry. He was stooped down, dragging the woman by a bloodied clump of hair. Once inside, he laid her to rest, face down, beside her husband, who was too far gone to notice. Morbid curiosity got the better of Lera, compelling her to sneak a look. Kathleen had taken two shots in the back, and one in the back of the head. Her skull, and the little that was visible of her face, appeared to be intact, apart from the cylindrical, bloodied hole and matted, blood-drenched hair. Her brains, however, had no doubt made a macabre addition to the décor.

Just like that, it was over.

Only then did the pungent smell of copper hit her nostrils, making her nose twitch. She must have been entirely too stunned before, because it was close to overpowering. Her pain receptors, too, suddenly caught up with her, and she realised her backside was quite sore.

"Did she go for the stairs?" Blondie asked, predictably unmoved by the turn of events.

"Actually, no!" his friend replied, somewhat in awe.

"Finally."

"Mm hm."

"Well, seems like today's the day of many firsts, eh Lera?"

She couldn't even process his answer, let alone respond to him. Two innocent people had just met a grisly death in her presence and it was all just too much for her to comprehend right now. Thinking was beyond her. Feeling, other than physical pain, was beyond her. Moving, too. Thus, she merely sat there, gazing vacantly at the open doorway.

Blondie sighed.

"The great thing about home invasion is that you don't need to worry about a change of clothes," he said, "well, excluding underwear, that is."

Behind her, came the sound of clothes being stripped off.

"Best you don't turn around, Lera," he continued, "Tubby has his-" he cleared his throat, "modesty to preserve. And by modesty I mean he's got b-cups and a few Rolls Royces, minus the Royces."

Giggling in a manner that could only be described as cute – yes, cute - Peter seemed to find this more amusing than demeaning.

"Shorts too, Tubby."

"I didn't get any blood on them."

"Better not risk it."

"Whatever."

The sound of fumbling followed, and then a zipper being undone, and finally the puffy thump of polyester hitting linoleum.

"And now, Lera, he's down to his underwear. It's not a pretty sight."

"Psshh."

It seemed to be less arguing than friendly bickering – just guys being guys. Either way, Paul failed to get a rise out of his subordinate.

Lera stayed in the exact same position a good while longer, utterly blank, letting the boys' conversation and actions wash over her in a wave of senseless noise. Her eyes, too, glazed over, to the extent that she didn't even notice Peter leave the room and return wearing a white bath robe. Her ear drums continued to throb, and her backside ached. The minor wound in her upper left arm, which she had hitherto forgotten, gave a twinge to remind her of its presence. Other than that, she seemed to succeed in zoning out completely. It was the only thing she could do to stay sane.

She came to, as if from a dreamless sleep, to the boys joking over who was more hipster. Lera wasn't entirely sure what hipsters were, nor did she particularly care; to the best of her knowledge they were the people who affected a 'cool' poise, dressing in American Apparel, listening to bands no-one had ever heard of, citing their 'work' as being an artist's muse, and revelling in their geekery. Or something like that.

"I'm so hipster I'm not cultivating a beard," Blondie quipped. "Ahead of the curve."

"I'm so hipster I listen to bands that don't exist," Peter contended.

His friend acknowledged him with a chuckle. "I'm so hipster I was reading i-D magazine before it was even published, and before I was born. Beat that!"

"Shit..."

"You fail as a hipster, Tubby. Admit it. You're a second rate hipster at best. A hipster that couldn't make the grade. Not quite hipster enough. And you're too fat."

Behind her, Peter pretended to cry.

"How can you say something like that?" he mock protested, "Knowing what I've been through!"

Blondie did not relent, this time affecting a freakishly accurate impersonation of ; "A semi hipster. A quasi hipster. You're the margarine of hipster. The Diet Coke of hipster; just one calorie."

"I can't take it any more!" Peter cried, tearing out of the room in pretend floods of tears.

"Go cry to Mommy, Mr. Not Quite Hipster!" Paul called after him. "You know you couldn't grow a hipster beard even if you tried. I doubt your hipster balls have even dropped yet."

Peter returned moments later, looking unaffected.

The two shared a friendly, almost affectionate chuckle – something that would have sounded endearing in lighter circumstances, but that in this one came across as decidedly creepy.

"I love you, Tom," Paul cooed wistfully.

"I love you too, Jerry," Peter echoed him. Lera sensed it was far more than a baseless joke, at least on the part of the brown-haired boy.

"Well kiss me, you fool!"

A few raucous guffaws followed.

Lera's sudden attentiveness must have caught their attention, because the next thing she knew, Blondie was sitting down cross legged facing her, mere inches from the fresh pool of blood. He liked to live on the edge, obviously.

"You're so quiet," he said, feigning concern, "I don't like it when you're quiet."

She exhaled through her nose, gazing back at him with a languid absence of emotion. She couldn't muster the energy to feel sickened by his little games.

"How about Tubby and I make it up to you, hmm?"

Her heart began rousing itself from the numbness, as if a mere suggestion was all it took. The rest of her didn't, though.

"She doesn't wanna play," Peter observed, listlessly.

That roused her.

Smirking, Blondie noted, "She does now."

And now she was fully roused, and wishing she could punch him. Either she was completely transparent or he was cleverly attuned to subtle shifts in consciousness. Or he really was a mind reader.

Remembering the importance of playing along, though, she drawled; "What do you want me to do?"

"Atta girl!" Blondie cheered, clapping her on the left shoulder. "But don't be so glum, OK? You're not a slave. We just want you to have fun. And please, we're all friends here, aren't we? You can talk to us as friends. I see you sitting there all quiet, holding everything in. You're not even calling us monsters any more. Don't bottle it up. If you want to scream and yell, do it. We won't mind."

"What do you want me to do?" she repeated blandly.

Blondie gave a sly grin. "Actually it's more a case of what you want us to do. Within reason, of course."

That sounded vaguely ominous.

He cleared his throat, then stood up, offering his hand to help her up.

She hesitated.

He rolled his eyes; "It's not a marriage proposal, sweetheart."

She accepted. He lead her to the kitchen table, where bathrobe-clad Peter was sat with a glass of apple juice, next to the backpack and the now fully stuffed clipper and beachbag. She really must have zoned out because she couldn't remember hearing the fridge door open or anything getting moved or offloaded.

She sat opposite Peter. To her dismay – although subconsciously she must have expected it anyway – Paul seated himself on the chair beside her. There they were, like some nuclear cult family at the breakfast table, with four corpses adorning the floor, and three more upstairs. The bizarre thing was, however, she had obviously become inured to their presence already. The waves of terror and revulsion that had forced her to zone out only minutes earlier lay alarmingly still, and the stench of their spilled blood no longer pricked her nostrils like an insistent hornet's stinger. It defied logic just how quickly she seemed to have adjusted. Nevertheless, she was grateful for it, and for however long it lasted.

He went on; "We're gonna offer you a unique opportunity now. You might not believe it but we've never been this generous with anyone. That said, it's not every day you intrude on someone who wants to kill themselves."

"Get on with it," she grumbled.

The duo tittered at her expense.

"OK," Blondie continued, "if you had the chance or the capability right here and now, how would you humiliate us? It has to be something you could do here and now."

Whether a taunt just to slam home her powerlessness, a trick, or an empty proposition, she quickly deduced that in fact there was precious little she could do, or that she only felt inclined to do, for that matter. Except in Jacques' case, she had never been particularly vindictive. And the only viable thing that did spring to mind they were unlikely to comply with. Still, they has asked a question, and according to the rules she was duty bound to provide them with an answer.

"Why do you want to humiliate yourselves?"

"Because we want to make you happy," Paul replied sweetly.

"Why would you humiliating yourselves make me happy?"

"I don't know...? You tell me."

"It's _your_ game."

"And you're the one who's imagining scenarios as we speak."

Jesus. She couldn't win. Whatever she said he would twist to his own advantage.

She relented, asserting; "You wouldn't do it anyway."

"Depends what it is."

Oddly emboldened – because there was no way she should be able to muster the confidence in the given situation, despite Blondie granting her permission to do so - she continued; "Suck each other off?"

"What?!" Peter shrieked, practically jolting out of his seat.

His blonde friend regarded him with an arrogant snicker.

"Your sick mind is beautiful, _darling_," he cooed, reaching forward to stroke the side of her face – she flinched - "I'm glad we haven't killed you yet. You really are too much fun."

Peter folded his arms, stating petulantly to his buddy "I'm not sucking your dick."

"And I'm not sucking yours, Tubby. But you've gotta admit, Lera, he's got perfect blowjob lips, right? Talking absolutely objectively of course."

Peter's face contorted into an expression of amused displeasure.

Talking absolutely objectively, though, Blondie wasn't entirely incorrect; his friend did have attractive lips. Undeniably attractive. They weren't pouty like his own, but enviably sculpted, and full, with a perfect cupids bow. For a split second her mind toyed with the idea of kissing him, and even the thought of those lips wrapped around-

*Stop it _right now_.*

She kicked herself mentally. Not him, too, for the love of God. It was impossible to ascertain their exact ages, but Peter certainly looked and indeed seemed younger than his friend; his features, his voice, his stance, his mannerisms, all contained facets of that same childlike cuteness that had struck her upon seeing them that first time. Although he wasn't jailbait, as a woman of 28, somehow it still felt inherently wrong to think of him in any sort of sexualised way, whether it be with her or anyone else. It felt... perverted.

Those lips, though...

She wanted to knock Blondie out for drawing attention to them. Likely that had been his intention when he had put the (seemingly false) proposition to her a minute earlier. The guy had a motive for everything.

"I knew you wouldn't do it," she continued.

"And I told you it depends what it is. Now, sucking each other off we won't do. However, we could..."

He gestured for her to complete the sentence. She didn't.

She waited on an answer. He simply held her with a lascivious half-smile.

She shrugged; "What?"

"Wink wink nudge nudge, as they say."

Peter looked disgruntled.

She wished Paul's tendency for crypticisms would go away – he was doing a fine job projecting idiocy onto her.

"OK well that either means... no... that could mean sex, handjobs, or making out."

"Ah, but which one?"

"Handjobs or making out."

"Correct! And which one of those?"

"The latter," she replied immediately. It was a no-brainer, really.

"Gold star for you!"

She shot him an indignant glare.

"It's not humiliation if it doesn't make you uncomfortable," she ventured pointedly.

"It makes us plenty uncomfortable, thank you," he corrected her.

Peter seconded him with an emphatic nod. Lera wasn't entirely convinced. Although they bickered and teased each other, the brown-haired boy was clearly very much in awe of his charismatic friend, possibly to the point of adoration. She was in little doubt that if Paul told him to jump, Peter would indeed ask "how high?" and be completely fine with it so long as it made his friend happy. It wouldn't surprise her if that extended to faux homosexual activity, once Peter got around the concept of it. She wasn't even going to mention necrophilia, just in case. They were an absolutely fucked up pair and she wouldn't put anything past them.

"But first of all – and you just hold that thought, Lera, because it'll come, don't you worry –"

A lewd image flashed irrepressibly through her mind. Cursing inwardly, she forced it away. It almost felt like they were inside her head, pulling the strings, trying to reduce her to their sick level. She couldn't allow herself to give them the satisfaction.

Peter exhaled loudly in begrudging acceptance.

"-we need to get something else sorted out." He looked to his friend; "Time now, Tom?"

"9:40."

"OK. Now, this garden soiree thing's put a bit of a spanner in the works, as they say. Serendipitous we came back here otherwise we wouldn't have known, so thank you, Lera, for choosing the Ebners."

"Thank the frozen yogurt," Peter cut in cheerfully, seemingly over his strop already, "that's what she wanted."

"No Tubby, that's what _you_ wanted. Quit trying to absolve yourself of guilt. You have a problem and you need to confront it, before you end up with heart disease and diabetes or something similarly tragic."

Peter looked elsewhere.

"As the garden party's at 7," Blondie went on, "and Frenchie's only due to arrive at 5, that doesn't really leave us enough time. I have no clue who's invited but if most of them show up and the Windsors aren't there, and neither are the ones we've offed, they're gonna get suspicious. They might go searching the streets and come across our car. If we wanna get any more kills in we're gonna have to drastically cut down our schedule and be outa here by 5:30 tops, and even then we've gotta travel outside this particular area. Any ideas, Tubby?"

"You're the ideas guy, you know that."

"Hah. You just can't be bothered, can you?"

Peter shrugged.

"Well, if you come up with anything, don't hesitate to let me know, ok?"

Peter shrugged again, taking a sip of apple juice, the moisture forming a reflective gloss on his lips.

"Now, Lera," Paul started, "I need you to call Frenchie and have him come here in three hours maximum. Can you do that for me?"

"Do I have a choice?" she replied, with mild recalcitrance. It was a statement, not a question.

Blondie flashed her a soulless smile, sending a chill through her. She wondered if he practised in the mirror, honing his expressions to masterfully unnerving perfection. She couldn't recall anyone who could wield their features to that extent, and with such devastating effect. Perhaps, though, it was more a case of the mind behind the features shining through. Whatever, it worked.

Peter rummaged around in the backpack and retrieved Lera's cellphone, which he promptly handed to her. She took it.

"Tell him to call you before he leaves, with his ETA," Blondie said.

She pushed Jacques' speed dial button, a plausible pretext springing to mind immediately.

*Don't lose it, please,* she beseeched herself.

A groggy-sounding Quebecois accent answered "Hi."

"Did I wake you up?"

"Yeah, but it's fine. I was due to be up in fifteen minutes anyway. Are you OK?"

"I'm fine. But I need to ask you something."

"Sure."

"Can you be here within three hours? I met up with the Farbers last night and they invited us to a garden party. It's at midday but it's OK if we're a little late."

"I don't see why not. I'm supposed to be ironing out some issues at the restaurant but I can hand them over to Luca if need be. But how come no-one told me this earlier?"

"I texted you several times asking you to call me."

"You did? I didn't receive anything."

Fortunately, her lie was water-tight; Jacques' private cell phone was the one thing in his otherwise immaculate life that didn't play by the rules. Often he wouldn't receive texts or voicemail for days, and then the entire backlog would arrive in a chorus of beeps and buzzes. He was always saying he needed to change it, but thus far had never done so. There was no reason for him to doubt her explanation.

"Piece of shit phone," he mumbled.

"So I'll see you at about 12:30?"

"Yeah, if not a little before."

She wasn't looking at either boy but she could almost feel their eyes burning into her.

"Actually, could you call me before you leave, just so I have more precise idea when you'll be here?"

"Sure."

"Great. I'll leave you to it, then. Love you."

"Love you too."

'Love you'; they were just words now, rendered obligatory and obsolete by the passage of time. Which was why saying them with such flippancy hurt her.

"Bye."

"Bye."

And with that, Jacques' fate was officially sealed. She was really going to have to steel herself now.

"Well done," Blondie acknowledged, with a reverent nod. "That was impressive."

"Mmm hmm," his friend seconded eagerly.

Lera eyed them one at a time, expressionless. There was nothing to be said.

"You and Frenchie live together?" Blondie inquired, with renewed friendliness.

Lera nodded.

"Where are you based?"

"Oyster Bay Cove."

"Nice," the duo remarked in uncanny unison.

"Well, that's our next destination then," Blondie affirmed.

"We were looking at properties in Bergen county though," she supplied, "not that it matters anymore."

The two cackled inanely. Lera didn't get the joke, other than it being on her.

"Bergen County?" Blondie exclaimed. "Really?"

"Yes. Why?"

"He's a Bergen County brat," Peter answered.

"It's true," Paul added, nodding, with no detectable pretence.

Her gaze flicked from the young man on her left to the one opposite. They were going to kill her; telling the truth wouldn't put them in any jeopardy.

"Where exactly?" Blondie quizzed her, suddenly looking very interested.

"Tenafly."

Peter gasped.

"You're kidding, right?" Blondie urged.

"No."

"Jesus... this is so _weird_. We could have been neighbors. My family's got a second home in Cresskill. Well, it's my elder brother's, actually, but we're round there so often it's like a second home."

She scrutinized his face. He seemed sincere.

"And the first one?" she probed.

"Franklin Lakes. Grew up there."

Lera could easily believe that. She wasn't hugely versed in real estate – Jacques was the one with the money, and she happily went wherever he took her - but what she did know was that Bergen County was one of the wealthiest areas in the country, let alone New Jersey itself. Naturally; Jacques wouldn't have been looking to move there otherwise. Her guy was nothing if not ostentatious. Diligently hard-working and with a heart of gold – besides being a cheating bastard – but pretentiously showy. For a girl who had come from nothing, however, Jacques' luxurious lifestyle had seemed like a dream, and the unabashed ostentation was no deterrent. It would be a lie to say his financial acumen hadn't influenced her decision to date him.

"Sucks to be you," she said, droll.

"Hah. Well, to be fair, we don't have a Starbucks, and the lovely folks in Wackoff – sorry, Wyckoff – do, which is completely obscene. But what can you do, hmm?"

"Why does it matter?" Peter cut in. "You're not even there most of the time."

"As someone who grew up with Starbucks, Tubby, you're not qualified to understand. It doesn't matter that there's one near the campus; it feels like a personal slight that there's not one in my municipality. I mean, it's ridiculous."

"You were traumatized."

"I was! Still am, in fact. Which is why I go around killing people. I need to vent all those years of pent up rage. Anyway, enough of that. You were saying, Lera?"

She shook her head, lying "I wasn't."

"Now that's not true, is it? You were wondering about Peter. Go ahead and ask him something. We're all friends here, after all."

"Until you kill me, of course," she retorted casually.

"Agghh Lera," Blondie cracked, throwing an arm around her (and fortunately just as quickly releasing it) "you're awesome!"

She shrugged her shoulders. Screw him. Not literally.

"OK," she conceded, then addressed Peter; "What about you?"

"Valley boy," he answered, with a curt smile.

Paul chuckled, muttering "Valley boy" under his breath."Paradise Valley, Arizona, that is," he added, "But he's right; it does sound like a porno hotbed. Have you been there?."

Lera shook her head. "I don't even know that much about it, to be honest. Golf courses and millionaires, that's all I've heard."

Peter laughed; "That's about it."

"But the golf is absolutely first class," his friend hastened to add.

"And we have several Starbucks."

The blonde boy pointed an accusatory finger at his brown-haired cohort. "Don't gloat, Tubby. It's not nice."

Peter chuckled. Paul rolled his eyes.

After a somewhat awkward pause, with only the whir of the washing machine for sound, Paul leaned closer to Lera. Immediately, her heart responded, and she panicked, finding herself trying to scoot her chair backwards, but got virtually nowhere. Her attempt only seemed to enthuse him, and he quickly moved his own chair closer to hers again. She wasn't going to win this battle and she knew it, so she gave up and forced herself to accept the discomfort. She glanced at Peter, who was watching them, rapt. It was only then that she noticed, despite the ample light, the size of his pupils.

*Must be something good in that apple juice, huh.*

Paul's were normal, but the sly look upon his pretty boy features spoke for itself.

And it was only _then_ that she realized she had fallen into their trap.

The little bastards; their oddly civil conversation had temporarily, yet effectively, lulled her into a false sense of security, making it possible to catch her off guard. Her mind reeled, trying simultaneously to decipher and anticipate what was coming next, but she couldn't. Dilated pupils didn't always relate to sexual arousal, but he was amped up about something.

"So, Lera," Paul said in a hushed register, unblinking eyes both scary and sultry, "how about that humiliation?"


	7. Chapter 6

**_AN:_**

_Thank you for the reviews!_

**_Disclaimer:_**

_Resemblance to any other Funny Games fics is purely coincidental. _

_I regret nothing. I own nothing. My backside is a gong and Michael Haneke is the one beating it._

* * *

It wasn't the prospect of the boys voluntarily humiliating themselves that got her, or the possibility that the perverse side of her might actually enjoy watching it; it was the fact that she literally thought she would go insane if her assailant didn't blink soon. He held her with a gaze that both chilled and burned simultaneously, and every millisecond that passed without change seemed to make the walls close in on her further. It was no less than suffocating. In this weird and distorted universe that she had been thrown into since this morning, she was now apparently fine with being in the company of corpses, yet her ability to handle a prolonged moment of eye contact was deteriorating each time.

But it wasn't natural to hold a stare for that long. It seemed inhuman, almost, and she could swear that while it happened, everything else levitated in a state of suspended animation. For a moment she wondered if she was indeed losing her mind.

"Well?" he prompted, and to her utter and immense relief, finally blinked, bringing her back to the question in hand.

"I... I don't know what you mean," she replied in a tiny, trembling voice.

He gave another of his now characteristic eye rolls, replying "I _mean_, do you want Tubby and I to make out, or not?"

Another lewd image materialized in the forefront of her mind, out of suggestion rather than desire, only to vanish as quickly as it had appeared. Was this what she wanted? Did it turn her on? Had Blondie not mentioned it, would it ever have even occurred to her?

She managed to transfer her gaze briefly to Peter, whose interest had not waned, and neither had his dilated pupils. He was gazing at her with the suggestion of a half devilish, half creepy smile, mirrored by the sinister gleam in his eyes. She wondered if Blondie had taught him that – it was certainly perturbing enough. Even more so, given his boyish air. She wondered, though, if the idea of guy on guy action repelled him, what he was so enthused about. There was more to this than they were letting on, she thought with a creeping sense of consternation.

Meeting Blondie's eyes once again, she replied meekly, "I don't know."

"Well make up your mind, _honey_. We haven't got all day."

To be fair, it was an absurd proposition. She had been taken captive in her own home, roughed up, forced to look at corpses and witness a murder, toyed with, and made to comply in the killing of her fiancé; how was she supposed to know what she wanted? Her straight talking voice immediately jumped in, reminding her that, unrealistically high expectations or not, not playing wasn't an option. It didn't matter what she wanted or how she answered – only that she answered at all. But if she said yes, they would accuse her of being a pervert; if she said no, they would probably go ahead anyway, just to make her uncomfortable. She would lose either way.

"No," she finally replied, unsure whether it was the truth or not.

Blondie edged yet closer to her, brandishing a wry smile; "Why not?"

"Wha...?" she began, flummoxed. Now they were asking her to justify herself?

"I said, why not? Are you a homophobe? Does Tubby's body repulse you?"

She pitched a glance at 'Tubby', who didn't seem at all bothered by his friend's put down.

"That's not what I-" she attempted.

Blondie cut her off: "Or are you scared you'll get so turned on that you want to join in?"

Her skin began to prickle.

"How's your relationship with Frenchie, by the way? Lacklustre?"

Now her cheeks were tingling; the prelude either to a blush or a pallor, depending on what was said next.

"No spark any more, hmm? Sex is routine and not very often?" Voice lowered, all velvet and satin, he continued: "When was the last time he fucked you so passionately you were screaming? What about the last time he made you cum, hard? Can you even remember? Is that why he's playing away? He's giving it to some other little slut because he's bored of you?"

Dead in the water, she could only sit there taking the taunts – words that cut deep, like violations in themselves - whilst her hormones and body betrayed her. He was going in for the kill and he knew precisely which weaknesses to exploit in order to do it. The perverted part of her – or perhaps simply the part that grappled to make the situation any less painful - responded to the sexual talk with questionable arousal, whilst the heartbroken romantic took an impalement where it hurt. A fucking javelin.

"You've been having to get yourself off recently, haven't you? Frenchie says he's too tired for sex, so you get your dildo or vibrator or whatever and go to the bathroom."

Shit... Had he been spying on her?!

"He doesn't even want to watch you. But the plastic's not good enough, is it? The orgasms are satisfactory but weak. It doesn't compare to having a guy's meat inside you, thrusting into you, rubbing against you, right? You want the heat, the skin, the sweat, the moans, feeling him climax too... You want to share the experience with someone else. And you've given that some thought, haven't you? You've considered playing away, just because Jacques is doing it. There have been guys – guys other than him – who you've thought about when doing the nasty with yourself."

Although to her abhorrence the blush raged and the moisture gathered irrepressibly between her legs, the rest of her just felt sullied. Her captor was the one doing the talking, the suggesting, the accusing, yet the steadfast look in his eyes, and the mischievously conspiratorial tone of his voice, somehow made her feel as if she had inflicted it on herself. He knew her dirty secret and he was going to wring it out – wring all the filth and dirt out of her guts, twist by painful twist - and she was going to listen and admit her guilt because there was no other alternative. Jacques was a cheating SOB but she was no better, was she?

In the midst of her beleaguered state, it took a few moments for the realization to hit her; the proposed humiliation, just like the boat accident and phone call excuse before it, was a brilliant ruse. Whereas the former had been to gain entry and then to immobilize her, the latter appeared to be concentrated solely on making her squirm. That was what had amped Peter up: her uneasiness, _her_ humiliation. He got off – hopefully only mentally – on watching his friend deftly manipulate and inflict psychological torture on their victim. She was surprised he hadn't produced a box of popcorn out of thin air and sat back with his feet on the table.

A maelstrom of emotion coursing through her veins – anger, resentment, sorrow, frustration, longing, degradation – suddenly, she felt last vestige of dignity return. She didn't have to listen to this. She needed peace, just for a moment. What changed to mobilize her again, she couldn't fathom, but suddenly something was propelling her and she was standing up from her chair, with astonishing calm, and she had found the use of her legs again and was walking away, not thinking or caring about the consequences.

"Hey, where are you going?" Peter called innocently.

She ignored him, ignored the bodies and the carnage, and kept walking. A few more paces and she would be at the kitchen door. She heard an exasperated sigh, and then the scoot of two chairs in striking coordination, but she kept walking.

Mere seconds later, as she reached the door, she felt Paul at her back.

"Lera, where are you going?" he asked, sounding disappointed but making no attempt to stop her.

"Can you just... leave me alone for a moment?" she said meekly, now entering the hall.

*_You can't take the truth, can you?_* said her conscience, wagging a stern finger at her. *_No-one's ever told it to you straight before. You do realise all you're doing is confirming your guilt, right?_*

"I'm afraid that's against the rules at the moment."

She began traversing the polished wooden floor, looking directly ahead and skimming over the blood splatters on the walls.

"Lera," said Peter, in the tone of a considerate friend, "you can be completely honest with us. Paul's only telling you what all of us already know."

*_How do _you_ know that, you smarmy little prick?!_* one inner voice snapped, but her lips stayed closed. She walked on, despite knowing how pointless it was.

"You should unburden yourself," he persisted. "It's not good to keep these things all bottled up."

"It doesn't matter any more," she murmured blankly, rounding the staircase. "I won't be living with it much longer."

"And why is that, hmm?" Blondie postulated.

After an elongated pause, as they entered the living room, she answered "He drove me to it. And if you know the inside of my mind as well as you think you do, you'll know why."

"No-one's judging you, Lera," Blondie said with convincing sincerity. "You've got your reasons and we're not here to question that, OK? You've obviously been through a lot with this guy. He's the unfaithful one. You had fantasies – come on, that's only natural – but you never acted on them, right?"

Why did he seem to be backtracking all of a sudden?

"That's why," he continued, more cheerily, as she noticed that the duo were now flanking her and guiding her in the direction of the sofa, "we've got a fantastic game in store for him; one in which we – Peter, myself, and you – can all work together, as a proper team, to break the poor little heart that broke yours."

Curiosity piquing, she stopped abruptly. Idiocy taking over, she turned to face him.

There was that ominous half smile again, and that glint of smug satisfaction at having arrested her attention. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, and with a mischievous expression continued: "It's called 'A Woman Scorned.' We're going to help you exact your revenge. Frenchie cheated on you, so now you can turn the tables on him. It's only fair."

She wondered then if he had read her mind; assuming she had inferred correctly, of course. Although, psychic ability notwithstanding, she would be spectacularly dense or delusional to believe any of it was truly for her benefit.

A moment's captivation cost her her guard. She let out an involuntary shriek as the force of his hands pushing against her shoulders sent the world topsy turvy, and she fell backwards onto the sofa. Affording her no time to recover, he was already trapping her - balancing on the sofa's edge with his left leg folded under him, conspicuously nudging her right thigh, and his right on the ground, propping him up, whilst his hands rested against the outside of her knees on the precipice of the cushion to steady himself. Lera was too stunned by the seemingly impossible swiftness of it all to brace herself for whatever was coming.

"Now, these are the rules," he began, to Lera's immense relief not taking any further action, "Half an hour before Frenchie arrives, you and I are going to start getting to know each other a little better, you understand?"

Thoughts and questions zipped hither and thither like an erratic fly around her mind. Was she sure he had just said what he had said? Yes, she was sure. But was that necessarily what he meant? If not, what did he mean? If yes, was she ready for him to remove any measure of doubt? Did she even have a choice? Was she ready to accept that he wanted the same thing as she did? But why did he want that? Surely not for the same reason she did? Could he have an ulterior motive? Was this all just another set-up for the next stage of the game?

"Good," he clipped. "So, we make out for say, fifteen minutes, keeping most of our clothes on. Then, we- Oh, don't look so surprised, Lera, please. I'm only giving you what you want."

It occurred to her that in that precise moment nothing would give her more pleasure than to punch pretty boy in his nauseatingly doe-eyed, pouty-lipped face, for being both an arrogant little dickwad and a mind reader. Having never punched anyone before she would probably break several bones in her hand, and he would probably retaliate, but it would be worth it for the blow to his ego. Her anger, and moreover her guilt at this being the latest sin of hers being found out, was what finally caused her to snap:

"You don't know what I want! You're sick."

Where she had anticipated a backhanded slap, he merely fixed her with a casual expression and replied matter-of-factly, "You're the sick one. And quite deluded too, if you want to believe I can't see _right through you_."

Blind indignation compelled her to fight back as best she could; the best being verbally. Maybe she would regret it, or maybe she wouldn't. She had to try. How dare he get her so fucking... right.

"Don't flatter yourself," she spat.

"I'm not," he smiled guilelessly.

She glared at him, inhaling and exhaling loudly, but said nothing. Although the boys' lack of retribution had bolstered her confidence somewhat, nothing could dampen her culpability. There was nothing she could say, no retort she could ever muster that would disprove him, because all three of them knew he was right. Like a predator, he could sense it in her, smell it on her, almost feel the pheromones crackling in the air, alongside the hitches in her breath and the acceleration of her heartbeat whenever he drew close. Depraved as it was, denying it was utterly futile.

How dare he. Just... how dare he!

"So, as I was saying, Lera," he continued, gliding the back of a slender, gloved index finger lingeringly down her cheek, his gaze flickering to her lips then back to her eyes again,"then, we fuck-"

"What if she's plugging?" Peter interjected plaintively.

His eyes fixed on Lera, Paul replied in an exasperated tone, "Then I unplug her."

"That's gross."

"How old are you, Tubby?"

"It's gross."

"You just have a phobia of women's issues..." he leaned an inch closer, "The menstrual cycle is a beautiful thing, and there's way too much stigma attached to having sex during a woman's period. In fact, did you know a woman is hyper sensitive when she's on her period?"

"Too bad then, because I still think it's gross."

"Think what you like, but you're missing out."

"I will. And I'm not missing out."

"Good for you then."

"So are you plugging, Ma'm?"

"Tubby, call her Lera, please. We've been on first name terms for a while now."

"I'm not," Lera interjected desperately.

Laughter erupted from the two boys.

"Well that's that settled, then," said her tormentor, with a satisfied tilt of the head. He cleared his throat, and continued; "As I was saying, _again_, Lera, you and I become intimately acquainted. Fuck, copulate, screw, have sex; whatever you want to call it. How you want, how I want..." he leaned closer still, full lips only millimeters from her earlobe, "Do you want me to hold you down and brutally have my way with you? Do you like getting bitten? Do _you_ like to bite?" He ghosted both hands up her sides, the fine hairs on her forearms standing to attention in his wake. Reaching her temples, his fingers entangled in her hair, "How about hair pulling, huh?" and with that, he tightened them into fists and yanked, hard.

Lera yelped as pain exploded in her scalp, instinctively jolting sideways in an attempt to free herself. She had never been one for rough or kinky, and her pain threshold never particularly strong. Her tormentor merely laughed, letting her go momentarily before hauling her back up, by the hair, the instant she crashed onto the arm rest.

"There there," he cooed, devilish eyes and sultry lip bite. Yes, she wanted to bite those cherubic lips, and draw blood for good measure. He smoothed her messed up hair with jarring tenderness as she looked on, lost for words or reactions. Jacques used to touch her like that, just like that. She knew the blonde boy was toying with her, yet she felt confused anyway – too many thoughts, fantasies and recriminations still swimming around in her head, all battling for dominance.

"I like to take my time," he whispered, nudging his lips against her ear again, as his hands now slid to the small of her back, "I mean, we're your guests after all. The least we can do is thank you for your hospitality."

_*Stop it, please.* _

_*No, please don't stop.*_

_*Please...*_

_*Please what?*_

_*This isn't fair.*_

_*If you've learnt anything these last three years it's that life's not fair. Get over it.* _

"So when Frenchie arrives, we'll still be going strong. He'll be humiliated, made to watch us as we move together. I want you to enjoy it, Lera. Moan, scream, cry, gasp... make as much noise as you can. Don't be shy. Can't have him thinking you're being taken against your will, do we?"

*_Wait... what..? So that _does_ mean they were going to... after all?*_

"You..." she breathed, hazel-brown eyes meeting steel-blue ones, to which a jet of white hot electricity surged right through her, sending her stomach reeling, despite what he had just implied.

"Yes?"

"You were going to rape me? Did you rape Ann? Jenny? Betsy? Eve?"

He edged back, head bowed and laughing. She heard his friend join in.

"Because that's what home intruders usually do, Lera?"

"I don't know...? You said-"

He cut her off with a sigh, shaking his head.

"You should know by now, we're not your typical home intruders."

"But you said-"

"Ssshhh."

"But-"

"Lera," his voice suddenly took on a sterner tone, with facial expression to match, "I said sshhh."

Frustrated, she obeyed. Whatever he meant, she would have to draw her own conclusions. It was immaterial now anyway. Whether he or both the boys had raped any of their other victims – menstrual cycle or not - and, as she feared, planned to rape her too, made little difference. And even though he had effectively denied it, didn't guarantee he was telling the truth. Just let them play their little games, it was all the same to her, right?

It was only then that she looked around him to find his friend hovering behind them, filming the proceedings with a cell phone; a Sony Ericsson K800i, to be precise. Oddly, her first reaction was not one of outrage, but a ludicrous sort of fascination with him owning the same model of cell phone as her. It crossed her mind that it may even be her phone, until she noticed how pristine it was... just like its owner. Hers had been battered about so much already in the mere months of ownership that she was surprised it still worked. Then the alarm struck her.

"Why are you filming this?" she blurted out, eyes darting from Paul to Peter.

"Why not?" Peter replied innocently, shrugging. Damn, if he didn't look like butter wouldn't melt..

"He's going to film us – I mean, you and me – fucking, too," Paul added, matter-of-factly.

"No..." she protested, shaking her head.

"Uh-huh, Lera."

"Don't film it. Please..."

"Party pooper."

"Don't. Please."

"Why not?"

"Just.. please don't," she beseeched him, realizing that whatever reason she'd had couldn't be articulated, and realizing off the back of that that she shouldn't be giving him the satisfaction of hearing her beg.

"I'm going to need a good reason, Lera."

"Does there always have to be a reason?"

"Hah. Listen; how much do you not want Tubby to film it?"

"A lot. Completely."

"Enough to lose a finger?"

Her eyes widened in horror as she processed his words. Aghast, she could do no more than stare at him helplessly.

"Well?"

She attempted to shake her head, but somehow the gesture came out as completely the opposite. Fortunately she caught herself as soon as she begun, and managed to execute the correct gesture.

"Was that a yes or a no? And to which question? Technically I did ask you two."

"No. To the first question."

"To be fair though, if you're intent on dying today you're hardly going to need the finger-"

"-No-"

"-we might as well cut it off anyway."

"No! Please.."

"Tubby, go and get a chopping board and one of those chef's knives."

"-No!"

"-Stop talking to me like I'm your pet dog," the shorter boy retorted, not moving an inch.

"NO!" Lera yelled at the top of her lungs.


	8. Chapter 7

_**AN:**_

_Thank you very much for the reviews, gals :)_

_Oh, and I have to warn you: this chapter contains some pretty extreme material, even more extreme than in the movie. It's not crazily graphic, but it does not occur off screen. If you are at all squeamish, after "She averted her eyes" search for *** (that's three asterisks, not a deleted word) and read on from there. Don't worry about missing anything, because all will be explained. It will, however, make for a pretty short chapter._

_**Please also be aware that the next chapter may take longer to write than the previous ones. Expect around 10 days, perhaps more. All but one of my other stories contain copious amounts of adult material, to the extent that I'm concerned what I want to write in this upcoming chapter may seem like I'm regurgitating previous stories. I'm going to have to do a lot of work on making something fresh.**_

_**Disclaimer:**_

_Resemblance to any other Funny Games fics is purely coincidental. _

_I regret nothing. I own nothing. If Michael Haneke wants sandwiches, I make 'em._

* * *

For an instant, Lera felt a brief glimmer of hope that Peter's mild revolt would lead to a skirmish, which would free up the opportunity for her to run to the kitchen, grab the gun, and... It stopped there, firstly because the boys' face off went no further than Paul twisting halfway round and placating – or was it, rather, goading? - his friend with an "aww, Tom. Don't be so sensitive," to which the cameraman just looked sullen and stayed put; secondly because Lera's complete ignorance of handling firearms would probably only result in worse injury than a severed finger.

There was, however, a minimal silver lining to the brief fracas; so long as Peter didn't move, she could still plead with him. Which she did.

"OK," she conceded desperately, "film it."

Paul turned back to her, gaze steady, serious.

"Film whatever you want. Please just don't... don't chop anything off or mutilate me. I'm begging you, please."

She felt even more humiliated for having to grovel, and, for what she went on to say, even more horrible and cowardly a person: "You said it yourself – I'm not the one who's at fault here. Jacques is the one with... wandering fingers-"

Part of her felt immensely pleased with herself for being able to work a pun into her plea, but it wasn't enough to suppress the disgust at the rest of her for the coward she had become. But, another voice argued, how else would she save her own skin? Besides, Jacques' faults outweighed hers, so i_f_ any logical sense could be applied to either of them losing a digit he should be first in line. If. She couldn't afford to get emotional about it, or to care about him any more. His fate was sealed and no amount of raging, grieving, fretting or lamenting would change that. He was no longer important. She couldn't afford to let him be.

"-he's the one who deserves to suffer."

Something between smug triumph and pleasant surprise crossed her tormentors' faces; and how weak, pathetic and ineffectual did she feel as the recipient of it. Strong people stood up and fought for their loved ones, including the ones who betrayed them, no matter what. They were mature and decent enough to let things slide in times of danger. Pussy bitches, on the other hand, grovelled, ran away, and made excuses.

"So what if I'm a fucking... pathetic coward?!" she spat, fuelled by rage at both the boys and at her own recriminating conscience. Her throat tensed, angry tears beginning to well up, but she soldiered on; "I'm weak. I crack under pressure. I don't wanna lose a finger. And I'm mad at Jacques for what he's done to me. So fucking what?! No-one's perfect."

The fact that something about him turned her the fuck on, conveniently left out.

"Your words, not ours," Paul replied.

Undeterred, the uncontrollable and wholly irritating pre-teen in her raged; "Oh, you're saying this is my guilty conscience talking?!"

*And you're saying it isn't?*

"Well you''ll have to excuse me if I'm-"

"Lera," Paul interjected wearily, like an exhausted parent to an obstinate child, "no-one's saying anything about-"

"-But you were fucking thinking it, weren't you?!" The tears were falling again now, for what must have been the fifth time in just over an hour. "You took me captive and terrified me and made me beg not to have my finger chopped off, and you have the fucking gall to judge _me_ for-"

"-Actually, the only thing I was thinking was that you're pretty fucking gullible. I don't know about Tom..."

Gullible?! How the hell was she supposed to detect insincerity or joviality when-

Fuck it, he was just taunting her. Perhaps she was gullible after all?

"No-one's judging you," Peter said, with a compassionate smile. The fact that it looked so authentic, and the knowledge that it wasn't, only made her cry harder.

"See?" Paul seconded. "I said it before and I'll say it again; no-one here is judging you or trying to project any sort of guilty conscience onto you."

She didn't believe it for a moment. He probably knew that, though.

"Please don't chop off my finger," she choked out, less hysterically than sorrowfully this time.

Paul sat down beside her, stretching out and then crossing those long, lithe pins, and said impassively "Tubby hasn't gone anywhere."

Peter shook his head, before glancing briefly down at the phone, pressing a button, and then pocketing it.

It took a few moments, but she caught on eventually. The finger chopping wasn't an empty threat - indeed, she was in no doubt they would do it _if they wanted to _- it was yet another segment of this never-ending masquerade in which her reaction was the entertainment. Everything, it seemed, was a playground to them, an exercise in psychological manipulation delivered with flawless expertise. The questions, suggestions, the bickering; everything. And she, alone and unaccustomed to this type of assault, was rendered an ineffectual, _gullible_ pawn. Which, even though she had deemed it impossible, made her feel even worse.

In her mind's eye, a movie scene took form; a slightly scruffy blonde man and a perfectly quaffed, flame-haired woman rolling around on a bed, the song 'Fuck the Pain Away' by Peaches blaring in the background. Had she not been consumed with self consciousness for the teary, blubbering wreck she had degenerated into, she wouldn't have swallowed the sudden urge to do what her hormones and survival instincts implored would make her feel better; because dear God, she needed it. Just to surrender to blind lust and crazed desire, to immerse herself in a realm of pure animal instinct and physical sensation. Assuming Blondie would have responded favorably to it, that was. Everything on his terms, after all.

Another flicker from the same film: the blonde man, alone in the bathroom, confiding to the camera "told you I could fuck her". Then, a later scene, with the young woman meeting her untimely death. All of it, part of the game.

Wrong. It could never be as simple as pure animal instinct, as mere rampant hormones and carnal compulsion - the psychological component of the game was already too deeply and irreversibly ingrained. She got the distinct feeling that consensual sex would not have even been proposed otherwise. Then, suddenly, with gut-gnawing disquiet, something began to dawn on her, something she was terrified to confront but knew she had to - the creeping suspicion that exacting revenge on Jacques in this way wouldn't make things better for her, but in fact far, far worse. If any doubts were to emerge, it could spell disaster for her mental state. After the rush and pleasure were over, her emotions and her entire composure could very well be in tatters.

It was then that that most sensible, grounded facet of her psyche re-emerged, and with clinical calm said *then don't have doubts*.

It was that simple.

She looked at the young man not a foot from her, recalling the sensation of his clothed arms around her shoulders, barely concealing the inviting warmth beneath; his gloved hands painting paths down her face – an invisible mark of ownership; his warm breath tickling her earlobe whilst his honeyed voice permeated her skin, infecting her; and the way every single part of it set her heart galloping. She thought of that interlude in the kitchen when Peter was fetching the bags; then, how he had enunciated the words "then, we fuck" and "do you like to bite?", and the little tingling sensation her loins had responded with. She thought about those steel-blue eyes, both terrifying and alluring; those slender legs and the irrefutably hot little butt atop them; the firm plane of his torso; the strength and power of those lean arms. She tried not to think about Peter's lips, though. And she certainly did not think about the corpses.

Her mind lead on, without any conscious effort. She imagined Jacques, naked on a bed, limbs interlocked with a petite, sluttish collegiate. She heard the feminine wails, the brutish grunts, saw those perky breasts heaving as the girl threw her head back, exposing her neck for her sugar daddy to ravish. Then she saw herself bursting into the room, pistol in hand, watching the couple disengage, and immediately delivering one faultless shot to both of their upper bodies; not fatal, but disabling. A disturbing sense of gleeful anticipation flowed through her as she approached the girl, almost like the kind her captors experienced when first entering their victims' property. She would murder both of them, the slut first. It wouldn't be pretty and it wouldn't be quick, and she would take pleasure in it.

Without warning, the scene changed, and she couldn't stop it. She saw the living room of a modest, unfamiliar abode. Oak floors, mismatched furniture, a now antiquated TV in the corner. The slut's house. Ornaments and table lamps lay scattered around. A coffee table had been knocked over. Events began to unfold against her will. She saw a fast forward of everything that had occurred that day; the trio of Paul, Peter and herself, appearing at the door, and the ensuing, torturous onslaught the poor lovers were subjected to. Whether she had chosen to team up with the boys or had been forcibly dragged along was unclear; nevertheless, she found herself _enjoying_ it.

The situation now was a game called 'Excelsior!', named in honor of South Park's ManBearPig episode. It involved the captives on one side of the room and captors on the other, the objective being for the captives to make it to the other side without being taken down. If they could accomplish such a mission, they would be killed mercifully when they chose. The demonic duo – Lera wasn't quite at their level yet – had decided to give the beleaguered couple a sporting chance by offering them weapons to aid in their quest. It was too easy otherwise, Paul had said. They had found a baseball bat and combat knife -a fucking Gerber Mark II, no less - in the slut's bedroom, and flipped a coin to see who got what. Jacques landed the bat; the slut (whose name turned out to be Violet), the knife. Paul had the Kimber; Peter and Lera, nothing. All in all, that amounted to a pretty fair deal.

It was now realtime, and Lera stood at the wall, watching the proceedings. Jacques and Violet were on the other side of the room, advancing on the trio. They began with tentative steps and then, stupidly, broke into a run. In a lightning flash, Paul shot Jacques in the right shoulder. Seconds later rather than immediately, because he wanted to give the poor thing a chance, he shot Violet in her upper right thigh as the girl tore towards Peter. Despite his wound, Jacques charged at Paul, wielding the baseball bat. He was still alarmingly fast, and Paul had only barely had enough time to shoot him once more, this time in the side. Whilst falling, Violet again attempted to change direction and go for Lera, but was stopped by another bullet in the upper arm. She dropped the knife. It clanked onto the floor and skidded a short distance in Peter's direction. Carefully, and seemingly in no rush, the boy picked it up.

Jacques staggered towards Paul, again attempting to swipe at him with his weapon. Commendable, but stupid. Earlier on he had attempted, numerous times, to shoot Paul with an empty pistol, as if hoping the thing was simply jammed, or that the empty magazine would suddenly acquire a bullet via immaculate conception. Lera had fully expected him to use his initiative and, realizing miracles didn't happen in the real world, either try to run the fuck away again or admit defeat. But no; whether insolence, desperation or sheer stupidity, he had fired again, and again. Blind panic turned people into morons. Wealthy, successful Jacques was no exception.

Like a healthier-looking version of a zombie, he continued to lurch towards Paul, still waving the baseball bat. But he was no longer a threat, and Paul took him down with a bullet in his left foot. He yelped and keeled over, his weapon tumbling to the polished floor. Paul beckoned to Peter for the knife. The latter handed it to him. Alight with triumph, he went to Violet's side, crouched down on his haunches.

"You see this knife?" he said coolly.

The girl nodded frantically, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Well, I won't kill you with it, but I'll let you use your imagination."

"Fuck….you…"

"Oh? OK then, seeing as you're advertising it."

Lera sucked in her breath, not only unsure of and fearing what would happen, but wondering had she been less compliant would the same have happened to her.

Violently, Paul grabbed the thin girl by the shoulders and forced her onto her front. He was in the process of yanking her panties down and darting the glinting knife forward – Lera's eyes glued to the proceedings in absolute, stunned horror, this sick motherfucker's ingenious methods of maiming and killing making her queasy - when the girl screamed "No! Please…no!" There was no way of telling whether she had figured out his actual intentions, but Lera prayed for the girl's own sake that she had. Being raped with a body part would have been horrendous enough; this home wrecker deserved more than that.

Paul paused midway, turning to direct a glance at Lera. It wasn't a request for her approval.

Violet started to scream again. Paul grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head up.

"So…what was it you were saying?" he sneered.

"Mmmggghhh….mmmggghhh!" the girl replied, lips pursed together and rapidly shaking her head.

"Uh?"

"No…no…" she whimpered.

"What? Sorry, say again...?"

"She said NO, you fuckwit!" Jacques blasted, through his rasps of agony.

Paul shuffled round on his knees and fixed Jacques with an arctic stare. Cleared his throat.

"Mind this one, Tom," he instructed, standing up and letting go of Violet's hair. Lera watched the girl's head crash back to the oak floor before Peter had a chance to yank it up again.

Standing over Jacques, a split-second glint of psychotic joy flashed in the blonde boy's eyes. Only for a moment.

"Leave him alone!" Violet yelled, seemingly past being polite.

"Or you'll do what?" scoffed Peter.

"Leave him alone!"

"Please be quiet."

"You're so _rude_, Tubby!" Paul exclaimed, feigning censure. "How about, "would you _be so kind _as to please be quiet"?."

Peter giggled. Like a girl.

Jacques couldn't muster as much breath as his mistress, managing only a feeble whine.

Paul kicked the man hard in the chest, winding him, then quickly knelt down and swiped him over onto his front. He tugged Jacques' pyjama shorts (he had come to the door in bed-wear and a dressing gown) and boxer-briefs down at the same time, then forced his legs apart and instructed Lera to sit on one of his knees. She did so, without question. Paul knelt between the parting, holding the other leg firmly in place.

"Fucking faggot!" Jacques spat.

Lera had never known Jacques to be a homophobe. His second in command at the restaurant, and drinking buddy, Luca, was as queer as they came. She guessed the slight was the only insult he could muster under the circumstances. She wouldn't tell Luca.

She averted her eyes.

"No…That's not what-" the slut began, but was cut off by her partner's white-hot howl as Paul plunged the blade in.

He had done it. He had really done it. Dear God, the thought of it alone was enough to turn her stomach. She fell off Jacques' leg, doubling over and retching, but nothing came up.

"Why are you doing this?!" the slut shrieked, hysterical. "Why?! Why?! What did we ever do to you?!"

"Shut up," Lera commanded, flatly, on her hands and knees.

She didn't see, but rather imagined Paul twisting the serrated blade around, to which Jacques's almost unearthly wails filled the entire house.

"The male G-spot is up the ass, you know," Paul said, in a frighteningly calm, matter-of-fact way, and then twisted the knife round the other way, tearing the man's insides, "you should be enjoying this."

Jacques did nothing but shriek and scream for all he was worth.

"Stop it! Please! Please!" the slut pleaded through gushing tears. "If you wanna kill us, just kill us…please! Just…stop!"

It wasn't difficult to see that for some people torturing was fun, especially the long, drawn-out methods typically used when trying to extract information, or to coerce agreement or obedience. To have absolute power was to be able to strip someone away, layer by layer, and tear them down, piece by piece, until they were completely desolate, devoid even of the will to live. When their instinctual need to cling to life had been destroyed, you knew you had won. It made you feel like God.

But it was clear that Paul wasn't satisfied yet, and this girl's plea had come too quickly. She should still be begging for her life. Lera presumed he would just have to make her beg for her death that extra bit longer instead.

Lera heard the slick squelch as Paul tore the knife out of Jacques's ass and wiped both sides of it on the man's shorts.

"Let's go," he said, securing the man's garments.

Shaken, Lera pulled herself up. Paul stood up, grabbed Jacques by his upper arms and hauled him to his feet, holding him in front. He hadn't meant 'let's leave these poor folks alone', but 'let's take them somewhere else'. Peter had already done the same, his right hand clamped around both the gun and the girl's right arm, which wasn't an easy position to maintain. He jabbed at his captive's now bloody heel, pushing the girl forward. The slut began to walk, or rather, stumble.

"Too slow!" Peter snapped.

"I…can't!" the girl yelped. "It hurts!"

Paul was having the same problem. Jacques's multiple wounds had in effect crippled him, and he could only shuffle several inches at best.

"Forget it," Paul said, "let's leave these two and find some others."

"Sure?" asked Peter.

"Yeah."

Peter stepped away from his captive, letting the bleeding girl collapse once again. Paul let Jacques go, and shoved the heel of his shoe into the man's back as he fell. He landed face down.

"Keep your face against the ground and open your mouth, wide," Paul ordered. Although it sounded more like an instruction, so calm and collected was his tone.

The man did nothing.

"Do it. Unless you want your mistress to feel some real pain?"

"Please…" the girl sobbed, "just…kill us."

Jacques still did nothing. His partner continued to plead, over and over.

"Oh, you know what?" Paul sighed, "I'm bored of these two. Might as well put them out of their misery."

Lera frowned, shooting him an expression of 'over so soon?'. They deserved to suffer more.

Paul winked at her. He removed the knife from his pocket, and offered it to her, cocking his head in the girl's direction.

Ah.

Whilst far from being the squeamish type, even Lera couldn't bring herself to violate someone's genital organs with such a cruel instrument, irrespective of how said person had wronged her. Paul and Peter's limits, however, were borderless.

She shook her head, and mouthed at Peter, whose bloodlust was yet to be catered for, "you do it."

A grin spreading across his youthful face, the brown-haired boy paced slowly over to the scantily-clad girl, beckoning for Lera to follow. She knew what to do. Fortunately, the girl had fallen face down, so she couldn't see them approaching. And, for the volume of her sobs and wails, she couldn't hear them either. Or she didn't care. She kept trying to maneuver herself onto her side, but the pain proved too much for her to exert any sort of pressure on her limbs, thus every attempt ended in failure.

Paul gave a nod to his subordinate. Peter nodded back, awaiting the next instruction. The blonde boy held up his left hand, and on his fingers began to count down. Four, three, two...

His index finger went down, and immediately, Peter set to work.

And the girl screamed like a banshee, her weak attempts to thrash and kick thwarted by Lera and Paul.

It was Lera's turn to speak: "You really thought you could steal my fiancé and get away so lightly?" she snarled, listening to Peter twist the lethal blade like a corkscrew inside the screaming girl's body, and delighting in the disgusting squelch of blood and the tearing of tissue, "What do you take me for? Mother fucking Theresa?"

Jacques was virtually silent, save the occasional low groan. His eyelids hung closed, and he was losing consciousness fast due to the pain and loss of blood. Good.

Lera kept her attention on the leg she was sitting on, rather than watching what the boys were doing, and tried her best to ignore the terrified, agonized screams. Why was her conscience not compelling her to tell the boys to stop, and that they had gone too far? Well, they hadn't gone too far, yet. She couldn't imagine the sort of pain this poor wretch was going through, and she didn't even want to try. But she knew one thing; it was karma.

Peter withdrew the blood-drenched blade from the ruined orifice, and wiped it on the only remaining untarnished part of Violet's negligee. Her desire for revenge sated, Lera did not protest as the whimpering girl's pain was put to an end with a swift bullet to the head. Jacques was already unconscious and bleeding to death, but the last remaining shred of compassion Lera held for him, the last part that hadn't succumbed to bitter hatred, saw her asking for his end to be brought forward. Paul obliged her.

***Just like that. Like pieces of meat. So simple.

Although she would have preferred that Jacques be allowed to live, that he be forced to endure a lifetime of trauma, she felt satisfied with how he had gone. Not livid or hysterical that the man she had once loved just been brutally tortured and murdered; just a twisted sort of satisfaction that at least he had suffered. Her own death was imminent, and she could, literally, die happy now. This was as close to getting what she wanted as could possibly be.

"Lera?" came Blondie's voice from somewhere in the ether. A snap of the fingers brought her back to reality. He was eying her quizzically.

"You keep zoning out on us," he said. "It's not very polite."

She mumbled something inarticulate in way of apology and gave a diminutive head shake, trying to erase the gruesome spectacle from where it lingered behind her eyes. What the hell had she just imagined? What had possessed her to conjure up such disgusting, sick ideas? Clearly not her conscious mind, because no way in a million years would she have voluntarily fantasized about those kind of... depraved things. Something terrible must have occurred within her brain chemistry, some catalytic abhorrence that had opened the floodgates to a world of madness and perversion; and now all the evil within, previously contained behind a wall of sanity and logic, were flying out, sinking their shark teeth into her, and she was powerless to stop them...

Which was precisely what the boys wanted, wasn't it? She was their lab rat, their amusing little experiment in pathology who they wanted to push and prod, toy with, _infect and poison, _until she lost her mind. And if she didn't start consciously fighting to reign herself in, it would happen sooner rather than later.

At that point, her rational mind intervened. She was altogether too many things, it said composedly, but clinically insane was not, and would not become, one of them. That was something she refused to give them.

*It's not that simple,* protested her emotional side.

*Yes it is,* argued her rational one, *Because you know what will happen otherwise.*

*You may take my life, but you will never take... MY SANITY!* quipped her obviously tasteless sense of humor. *Jesus fuck, Mel Gibson makes awful movies.*

The washing machine beeped. Saved by the bell, indeed.

"Ooh, yay!" Peter gave a little cheer, and trotted off.

Paul leaned toward Lera. With a conspiratorial half turn of the head, as if keeping guard whilst divulging top secret information, he whispered: "Removing blood stains is pretty much his only source of burning calories, other than-" he made a subtle hand gesture, "-you know."

From the kitchen, Peter's voice floated through. "If he's telling you my only workout is masturbation then he's lying."

"_He's_ lying," Paul contended at a low volume.

"And he's probably telling you I'm lying, too."

Blondie pitched a glance at the heavens, yelling, "Have it your way, Tom." He addressed Lera, whispering, "But we all know the truth."

With that he rose to his feet, again offering his hand to help Lera up. This time she accepted readily.

She followed him back into the kitchen, where Peter was running the sink. The wet garments sat on the draining board, pending inspection.

Neither of the boys instructed her to do anything, so she resumed her position at the table.

"I think we got most of it out," Peter observed, holding up the t-shirt.

Blondie scrutinized the fabric, nodding.

"See, Lera?" he chimed. "Get to it fast enough and cold water is mostly all you need."

And he was telling her this because...?

"I'll remember that," she muttered sarcastically.

He snickered, then diverted his attention to examining the shorts, brow furrowed studiously.

"Can't make out anything here," he murmured.

"Me neither," seconded his friend, who promptly submerged the t-shirt in the sink and began rubbing at it.

Blondie gave the shorts a final once over, before deeming the garment passable and flinging it in the dryer. He then went to the backpack, rummaged around for a few seconds before retrieving a tub of table salt and bottle of Zout – obviously the duo came prepared – which he placed beside his friend. Peter poured a generous amount of salt into the sink – probably enough to induce heart attacks in the entire population of a small country – and continued working the soiled garment, whilst the duo struck up another conversation about something irrelevant. They made no attempt to involve Lera or even cast a glance at her, and again, she found herself absurdly conflicted as to whether she cared too much or not at all. Blowing hot and cold may not have been the most sophisticated tactic, but it was effective nevertheless. It got to her, even though it shouldn't.

She got up and went to the fridge, hoping to distract herself and rouse interest with its remaining contents, which turned out to be not much at all following the boys' pillaging spree. Although she wasn't particularly thirsty, an open carton of fresh, organic grapefruit juice appealed to her taste buds. She brought it back to the table and then went about searching the cupboards for a glass, the boys idly chatting away in the background. Sitting there sipping on the tangy, bitter juice, she watched the duo, occupying her mind this time by scanning up and down the back of Blondie's body. Despite everything that had happened, she still found absolutely no difficulty in objectifying him.

Ten minutes later, she wished she had kept her eyes to herself.


	9. Chapter 8

**_AN:_**

_Well, turns out this isn't the chapter, but the prelude to it. Still, for what it is, I hope it delivers ;) **Expect another 10 days for the next chapter. **  
_

_Note: in case you don't know, 'Andreevna' is pronounced 'Andreyevna'._

**_DISLCLAIMER:_**

_Regret nothing own nothing yada yada bing bang. Resemblance to any other Funny Games story is purely coincidental. Something about Michael Haneke thwacking my culo with a paddle (in the most platonic way possible)._

* * *

"She's checking you out again," Peter noted flatly.

*Oh for crying out loud, what's so wrong with that?* Lera thought to herself indignantly. It was hardly a crime, especially given that they would soon be intimately acquainted.

Without turning around, his friend replied in a mildly sarcastic tone, "And have you been keeping count of how many times she's done it so far?"

Peter shot him a humorless look.

Blondie chuckled, swivelling on his heel to face his admirer.

"Were you?" he said casually, voice all wry amusement but expression knowing.

Her rational voice advised her to leave it, that they were messing with her again, that it wasn't worth getting worked up about. Her childish indignation barked back so what if she was? Was she supposed to be able to flout human nature all of a sudden? Yet, the way he was looking at her somehow managed to elicit a queasy sense of guilt. Not shame, but guilt nonetheless, like a naughty child caught stealing candy. A minor offence, but one that warranted scolding. The opposing voices entered into a brief scuffle, from which for some absurd reason the childish side won.

She tried to distract herself from it, from giving Blondie his victory, by scanning his shoes, wondering how he and his friend had succeeded in keeping them blood-free. It didn't work – the mystery was unsolvable and she still felt guilty. Worse still, a mere few seconds later, she found the temptation to scan back up his body irresistible. A vital, primal urge began to stir deep within her as her gaze crept upwards, and she ended up lingering on his crotch area for noticeably too long.

*You fucking moron, Lera,* she thought. So much for not incriminating herself.

A hint of hubris playing on his features, he began advancing on her with leisurely determination; a predator closing in on easy prey. With every step, her heart jolted uncomfortably, its pace and strength quickening at a near impossible level. The fine hairs on her forearms stood to attention on increasingly goose-pimpled skin, flag poles on miniature mountains. Knowing that this was the desired reaction did nothing to help her quell it. By the time he stopped, two ruler lengths short of her, she was becoming light-headed and the pounding in her chest was now reverberating in her throat. It seemed unclear whether she was aroused, excited, terrified, or all three. It was awe-inspiring, albeit wholly unfair, what this one person could do to her, and in a matter of seconds, too. How he could _play_ her.

"Let's play a new game," he cooed suggestively. "It's called 'Look But Don't Touch'."

The drum in her chest leapt, apparently making a bid for freedom. She was afraid it might give in soon. Her torment addled brain, however, was too preoccupied with her physical symptoms to try and discern what he meant.

He gestured that she stand up. She wasn't sure if her legs were capable of such a feat, yet, slowly and shakily, somehow she managed it. A splash punctuated the calm, allowing her a moment of comparative relief watching Peter dunking and agitating the t-shirt in the sink, which at least prevented him from filming the proceedings elsewhere .

"Pull your dress up," Blondie commanded coolly.

Hands trembling, Lera bunched the dress and tentatively began raising it, stopping when she reached her upper thighs. Her tormentor gestured higher. She obeyed, pulling the garment to her hips. Self consciousness flared, the prospect that what he would see might repulse him; being overweight and flabby, she was hardly in his league appearance wise. Unless of course he had a thing for that type of women.

He gestured again. Well, if that was anything to go by, he didn't seem to mind.

Higher still, fully revealing her underwear - embarrassingly utilitarian, plain cotton panties. Neutral. Asexual. God, if she had known she'd be fortunate enough to get some on her last day alive – providing that actually happened, of course - she would have worn something far more appropriate.

He took one step forward, invading her definitely-too-close-for-comfort zone, then pointed to the edge of the table. She positioned herself there, draping the material behind her and making sure not to sit on it.

"Now open your legs."

She did so, perching precariously on the edge and exposing herself to him, hoping it was wide enough, and actively forcing herself not to wonder whether or not she was wet yet, let alone if it showed.

A devious glimmer upon his face, he carefully removed his gloves, slowly like a striptease, revealing slender, piano player's hands. Long, graceful fingers. Neatly trimmed nails. Beautiful skin.

The blood was roaring in her ears.

"No puns about the gloves being off, please," he quipped with a lascivious smirk as he pocketed the items.

"Or bare knuckle fighting," Peter interjected, not looking over.

"I wasn't..." she attempted, somewhat ridiculously. Temporarily mesmerized by the newly exposed flesh, it occurred to her then that she had never felt so pleased yet so anxious to see someone's hands alone. Blondie was right; this was a day of many firsts.

One final step, to which she was surprised her poor besieged heart didn't explode, and he was positioned slightly left of her, his clothed upper legs pressed against her naked left one.

"Now," he said softly, bedroom eyes honed in on her, "can you guess what the rules of this game are?"

Lera didn't think her brain was working properly any more. Chaos flooding her system, it seemed immensely challenging to even summon the will to think, let alone engage it. Now it made sense why animals in the headlights just stood there gormlessly.

*Fucksake* one voice despaired, *I... errrhh... I... ummmhh... Fuck_sake_!*

Observing her predicament, Blondie gave a diminutive chuckle.

"Well, as you seem to be having some trouble there-"

Trust him to rub it in, smug pretty boy bastard that he was.

But oh sweet Lord in heaven, he smelt good.

"-I guess I'll have to explain it for you. The rules are pretty self explanatory actually-"

"-I'm not stupid." It came out involuntarily, like a tic, and the moment it did she felt her panic peak.

"I know you're not. But you _are_ trembling."

Trembling? What? What was that supposed to- Shit, she _was_ trembling. Like a cornered, petrified child.

Blondie leaned closer, pressing his face to the side of hers, his left hand creeping across her shoulder, smoothing over her breasts and right shoulder in a ticklish rush, before coming to a stop at the crook of her neck. He began lightly massaging the area – oh, it all felt wonderful; his face against hers, the feel of his bare fingers and the pressure they were exerting – and said, "Ssshhh, relax."

His right hand came up to delicately entangle itself in her hair, half mimicking the action of his left.

"It's OK."

No, it wasn't. There was no way in the world any of this was OK. But bad things, terrible things, were sometimes the things that felt best. The sensation of his lips moving against her cheek, so achingly close to her own lips, and the rush of warm breath, were already making her crave his touch elsewhere; but her hands were stiff, clamped onto the table edge, and she was afraid that letting go, in an attempt to forcibly maneuver his hands elsewhere, would cause her to lose her balance. And wasn't the game called-

Look But Don't Touch.

So her brain was working after all. Intermittently.

The unbelievable – no, actually, not at all unbelievable – bastard.

"I get it," she murmured, the power of speech miraculously returning, too. Intermittently. "You can touch me, but I'm not allowed to touch you."

He pulled slightly away – although still perilously close enough - so that he was looking at her, his hands moving to tenderly cup her face. Desire pulsed in her every vein, yearning for him to close the gap between them and consummate her lips with his own.

"Bravo," he whispered. He didn't kiss her. Fortunately, she had expected as much.

Mercifully, the part of her judgement that knew better than to challenge him remained, although it almost began faltering at his next action: he removed his polo shirt.

*OK, OK, calm down, please,* she begged herself at the sight of his lean torso, *you've seen plenty of attractive, shirtless men before. Obviously most of them not in person, but...* The voice trailed off, already giving up.

The look in those eyes... God, she wanted to murder him. Ravish him, ravage him, then murder him. She feared her fragile sanity wouldn't hold up to much more of this torture, and he hadn't even properly begun yet. This did _not _bode well.

"On a scale of one to ten, Lera, how badly do you want to touch?"

She wanted to tell him to go and swim with giant piranhas, he didn't need his already sizeable ego stoked. What she said instead was, "Five."

He fixed her with an incredulous expression. And he was right, too.

"OK, six," she said.

"Wrong again."

*Fuck!*

She would kill him. She would go Samuel L. Jackson meets Jet Li on his pert little ass – which she absolutely was not trying to imagine naked - and kill the psychotic sociopathic or-whatever-the-unholy-fuck-o'pathic sonofabitch. If it wasn't so tragic it would almost be funny.

"Six point five?" she ventured tentatively.

With a surreptitious half smile, he replied, "You're a really bad liar."

"Maybe she's just not good at telling the truth?" Peter interjected guilelessly.

"Hey, go jerk off a pig, Tubby."

"I was just saying. Devil's advocate and all that."

"Tubby, we are not playing the Good Cop Bad Cop game, OK?"

'Tubby' sighed and returned to his work.

Lera couldn't discern whether any of their brief altercation had been genuine. Judging by how things had gone thus far, if these two struck up a sword fight and near killed each other it could still be for show.

Blondie didn't press her for the truth. Instead, eyes fixed on hers, his hand skipped to her crotch, where he began tracing the hem of her embarrassingly safe panties.

His gaze flicked down for a moment, glimpsing the shameful plainness, and he remarked, "I guess it really has been a long time, hmm?".

Gazes locked, his hands outside the material, he then tiptoed slowly down, spider-light, over her mons pubis, her entire clitoral area, and to the partition of her labia, sparking the beginnings of pleasure.

"Too long."

He lingered there, attuned to the hitches in her breathing, and the anticipatory look on her face, *Please,* she thought, *please*, but suddenly she couldn't get her words out, capable instead only of willing him with her eyes alone to venture down further. He saw it, but did not comply, instead creeping lingeringly back up the path of awakened sensation, right up to the hem.

"Six point five, is it?" he hissed suggestively, as his left hand trod a delicate path down again, the gentle pressure sensitizing her ever so slightly more. For the second time, he lingered at the top of her labia, setting her senses crying out for more. This time, however, he was waiting on something, and Lera knew what it was. This had just become quid pro quo, _Clarice_.

"Eight," she answered honestly. Remove the shorts and it would be nine; the underwear, ten. If he turned out to be visibly aroused, it would be off the Richter scale. He had probably guessed as much, and would use it in the very near future. Yes, she was doomed.

Covetous eyes and possibly his most delectable smile yet, he made good on his side of the bargain, sweeping his fingertips over her covered vaginal lips, and then back to the partition. Once again, this time firmer. And again, now the entire circuit, spreading his index and middle finger to lightly squeeze her vulva as he went.

Oh, yes...

In silence save for her trembling exhalations, Lera watched him, rotating her focus from his face, to his flawless bare chest, to his moving hand, as the sensation grew at a torturous, slow pace.

A pleasant semi tightness began to emerge in her neither regions, gently flexing in response to her tormentor's ministrations, waiting and _wanting_ to be coiled and wound and manipulated further by those achingly dexterous fingers. Despite the frustration and underlying fear, something about being at this person's command was incredibly sexy; something that, in spite of herself, struck right at the core of her identity as a woman. Perhaps it was because of females' natural, and mostly subconscious nowadays, inclination to submit to males sexually; or that he was a younger man with the innate confidence of someone far older, which made for an irresistible combination? Or maybe it was the element of danger, or the darker, disconcerting fact that the hands now bringing her pleasure had brought others – a group into which she and Jacques would soon belong - so much pain?

*OK, stop right there.*

Rattled by that last possibility, she brought her train of thought to a screeching halt. She was _not_ going to brave _those_ murky depths – her involuntary fantasy bare minutes ago had been bad enough. She tried to shut her mind off and concentrate solely on the facts: a hot, half-naked young man was giving her lady parts the kind of attention Jacques hadn't in months, and even so early in, it felt damn good. That was it.

Except that wasn't it.

Shit. And she was so warm and wet for him now, too. If he felt this good through her clothes, how sweet would his naked digits be?

Then, either by uncanny coincidence or mind reading, his hand slipped effortlessly beneath the hem of her panties, and...

*Oh God...*

He draped his hand against her entire crotch, cupping her vulva, and began undulating against her now slick flesh, not focusing on anywhere specific; although the heat and sensation of his skin was sufficient to keep her pleasure humming along smoothly. Lera suddenly realised she was softly moaning. Moaning, because of him, a murderer, who could command her in any way he desired.

*Stop it.*

"Masturbation is about the destination," he said, like a wise man imparting wisdom to a novice. "You just want a quick release- BOOM. Physical pleasure. But sex is about the journey... for me at least. I don't get off on using someone merely as a cum receptacle-"

'Merely' being the operative word, she noted. But she would take being a cum receptacle all the same; beggars couldn't be choosers.

He drew his fingers together and swept upwards.

"It just seems pointless-" He circled her entire clitoral area, sparking a mini heat wave and eliciting an equally heated gasp. "-You've gotta have the emotional connection with someone – you know, whether it's love, hate, victory, surrender, power, powerlessness, domination, submission, or whatever." Extending his ring finger down, gliding between her inner and outer labia, properly slicking the digit up. "That's what's really sexy, to me." Now his middle finger.

"What's also important is to take your time, enjoy everything." Bringing the moistened fingers together and massaging her now throbbing little nub. "Obviously I don't mean fucking for say five hours like they do in tantra. It's not necessarily a spiritual experience." Index finger joining them. "I mean not rushing to the finish line; holding on as long as you're capable of." Dipping between the folds, urging her lubrication on. Wetter. Hotter. Sweeter. "It's so much more fulfilling that way, for both parties. Don't you think?"

She was aware he had asked a question, but the ability to form a coherent answer had vanished. Any chances of it returning became null and void the moment she noticed his pupils. They were dilated to the point where only a gossamer thin corona of steel-blue remained, like some hallucinogenic inversion of iris and limbal ring. She prayed it wasn't sexual arousal, and then realised sexual arousal was better than malicious intent, but then remembered how normal his pupils had been throughout everything until now, and worried all over again, because if he was aroused he would no doubt tease her with it, and it seemed increasingly likely that this would prove too much.

A brief smirk flashing across his face, he continued, in a gossamer voice tinged with something close to menace, "That's why I'm not masturbating you-"

What the...?

He pulled marginally away, swiftly unfastening his shorts and letting them fall to the ground, before kicking them off. Lera's heart started fluttering uncontrollably as she took in his white, Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and what was not so well concealed within them. With that choice of underwear it was difficult to tell if he was hard or not; but if he wasn't, he was certainly impressively large flaccid.

"-I'm fucking you. This is foreplay."

And with that, he eased the garment down, just enough to let her know the state of play.

Up another notch went her desire. Up another few decibels went her heart. She understood now why he had a reason to be cocky.

"And you're going to have to be as patient as I am," he breathed sweetly, now lowering the boxer briefs further, and letting gravity take care of the rest, "because we've got nearly two hours until Frenchie arrives."

God, he looked so utterly delicious, as ready for her as she was for him. She wanted to touch. Had to. Needed to touch him all over. Caress and massage and knead. Lick him, kiss him, taste him, deep throat him, suck him and pump her hand up and down his cock, fondle his balls, bite his nipples, smack his member against her face. All manner of pornographic shenanigans that she had been starved of for so unbearably long.

A stream of profanities rushing through her head, as frustration and crazy lust surged through her overloaded veins, she was again rendered incapable of speech... except one damning word:

"Please."

Her tormentor laughed, mocking and cruel, yet bizarrely it seemed like the most exquisite sound ever to grace her ears. Stepped out of the garment. Pressed himself flush against her, the warmth and tantalizing firmness of his generous erection sandwiched between them. Ghosted his lips over her own, before imparting the most delicious feather-light kiss, and delicate tug on her bottom lip.

Lera felt giddy.

"Please," she begged, hoping against hope.

Denying her even so much as an answer, he stepped back again, wicked eyes blazing, and smoothly drew the straps of her dress downwards, until her flimsy cotton bra exposed itself. His right hand travelled to the modest swell of her left breast, and began fondling expertly. His left hand resumed its place at her vulva, index and middle digit delving inside her, causing her to moan aloud.

Oh fuck, yes.

He moaned, too, darkened eyes glittering in delight. Bit his lip teasingly.

"Your panties are soaked," he said in a husky murmur. "But I'm not going to take them off."

He crooked his fingers and began massaging, licking up like a flame, in a come hither motion, rousing her g-spot; and dear sweet Jesus, did she feel the heat, another shuddering breath escaping her. Yet, for all his masturbatory prowess, it still wasn't enough. She wanted to touch him, any part of him, so badly it seemed like the frustration alone could kill her. She felt as if she were teetering on the brink of insanity; and the stronger the physical sensation became, the more precarious the balance.

"Please."

"What's your surname, Lera?"

"Huh?" Foggy with lust and desperate need, her poor brain was easily thrown by such a basic question. It was unclear what exactly confused her about it, but in her current state it seemed like something impossibly complex, far too oblique for her to navigate.

"It's a very simple question."

The gorgeous feeling that had amassed in her clit seemed to have transferred itself to her g-spot, taking up from where the former had been abandoned, and it was building rapidly, pulsing and throbbing tightly like a little lighthouse beacon of pleasure, to her tormentor's unrelenting ministrations. Her left breast, too, was enjoying a good dose of it, her nipple erect enough for him to adroitly pinch and tweak the sensitive flesh through the thin cotton. She found herself instinctively shifting, tilting her hips fractionally upwards, although she was unsure whether this was to bring his fingers superfluously closer to the source of pleasure, or to edge that extra centimetre towards that luscious, forbidden part of him that she craved so painfully. He was so fucking ready for her, damn it. And he wasn't even touching himself.

"I... I know it is..." her autopilot-mode eked out, between involuntary mewls.

"You don't want to play any more?"

Abruptly, his hands stopped.

At their vacancy, panic and dismay seized her, and it took a few moments to complete the ridiculously simple procedure of tracing the effect back to its cause. Luckily, the stemmed flow of pleasure allowed enough respite for her to then engage her brain again, and she managed to answer, "Dyagileva."

His hands stayed put.

"And the patronymic?"

She frowned, frustration rising at the absence of his physical attention; "How do you know about patronymics?"

"I've got a Russian friend at college."

"Andreevna," she answered. Nearly two decades had elapsed since she had used that name.

Half smiling, half deriding, he returned to his task, re-igniting that glorious sensation in her sexual organs with punishing accuracy.

"Well, Miss Valeria Andreevna Dyagileva-"

For the first time in her en tire life, she realized two ludicrously trivial things. One: each of her names had four syllables and ended in the letter 'a'; two: her full name sounded almost like a boozy cacophony when said all together.

"-you need to learn some self restraint."

He slid his fingers out, transferring them north and proceeding to firmly massage a few slow, heated circles over her swollen clitoral area, before changing tack completely and occupying them at her hitherto neglected right breast. His right hand took over at her pussy, working her determinedly, her flesh and nerve endings rejoicing at the tension, and her hips straining towards him. It was barely ten minutes and, whether he chose her clit or her g-spot, she was nearing the final assent. It felt so unbelievably good, yet so maddening, at the same time; the encroaching climax, and sexiness of being literally under his thumb, clashed with the screaming frustration of being denied what she wanted most, and even the simplest of touches. At that point in time, it felt, ridiculously, like the harshest cruelty anyone could ever dream of inflicting. Yet that very sadism, too, sparked a certain aspect of arousal, didn't it? Could she honestly refute that being completely dominated in even the most maddening of ways hadn't made her all the more receptive to Blondie's handiwork?

To that, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that she wanted him in every single way right now, before she crested.

"I'm... sorry..." she lied, knowing how futile such an apology was, yet fantasizing it wouldn't be.

Tighter. Closer. Higher.

"No you're not," he affirmed, utterly impassive, abruptly withdrawing both hands and stepping back.

Crazy for completion, she watched, paralysed and horrified, as he promptly picked up his garments.

"What…what are you doing?!" she protested.

He kept his eyes fixed on hers but said nothing, proceeding to redress.

"Please…wait…stop!" she cried, craving those skilful hands more than anything in her entire life. He had wound her so tight, and left her there, unable to come undone, virtually unable to breathe. Whist her own hands could, physically at least, do the trick, that was hardly ideal. Not mere orgasmic gratification that she yearned for, but _him_ - what _he_ could do to her.

He swiped his gloves from the table, put them on.

"Please!" she persisted, not caring how much of a desperate fool she was making of herself. "I'm sorry! I just-"

"You are now," he clipped, turning and walking the few paces to his friend's side. He turned again, to face her, propping himself against the worktop. "And by the way, touch yourself and we'll make good on that finger chopping offer, OK?"

Aching for him, half of her raged, wanted to scream, achieve any sort of release however comparatively meagre. The other half, the half that acknowledged the pointlessness of anything and everything, just wanted to sink into an abyss of apathy and go to sleep. They met in the middle and settled on glowering at him, even though it would achieve nothing.

Shakily, she manuevered herself back down onto the chair. Her sodden panties felt as uncomfortable as the seething tightness in her nether regions, and the angry knot in her stomach. Blondie watched her with mild amusement.

"You don't think this isn't _hard_ for me, too?" he needled, rubbing his crotch with the flat of his palm.

*Oh fuck you. And your puns. Literally or not. I don't care. Fuck you. And your friend with the nice lips. Fuck both of you. Let's have a fucking threesome of monumental Fuck You.*

"Difference is, for me it's good hard. Makes me not take anything for granted. So, either you spend the next hour and a half miserable, or you learn to enjoy the torture, in anticipation of what you _will_ get."

Although her heart leapt at the 'will', she managed to contain the spike of excitement, muttering instead, "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. I'm actually trying to help."

"Whatever," she replied lowly, followed by a yawn.

Blondie snickered. "Oh ye of little faith."

Another yawn. Yes, going to sleep was looking ever more appealing as the minutes dragged by. The caffeine must have evaporated from her system, too, because she was tired. Not just weary, but sleepy and drained, weighed down with a heavy desire to just close her eyes and let everything fade away; probably not unlike the last moments of consciousness of a dying cancer patient. She'd felt that way before, occasionally during her treatment. There had been times when she had wanted nothing more than to give up and just go to sleep. Her body, however, had had other ideas.

No. She did not sleep then. She would not sleep now.

"Could you make me a coffee?" she asked quietly.

He regarded her for a moment, before offering a warm smile, and replying cordially, "My pleasure."

"Black. No arsenic."

The two boys chuckled. Whether that was with her or at her was impossible to tell.

"None of the others had a sense of humor," said Peter, not turning from his work. "I'm glad you do."


	10. Chapter 9

_**AN:**_

_Thanks for the reviews. _

_Apologies if this chapter is a little slow; take it as the calm before a very tempestuous storm. I could have included it as part of a much longer chapter, but I was eager to get something uploaded. I hope it doesn't disappoint (and if it does, be assured next chapter will be worth the wait)._

_**DISCLAIMER:**_

_Own nothing. Regret nothing. Michael Haneke's chief sandwich maker in residence._

* * *

"There you go," Blondie said with a cordial smile, placing the steaming mug before his captive.

The captive gave an awkward "thank you".

"Careful now. It's hot."

*Hah. Hah. Thank you _so much_ for your concern,* she scowled secretly, the pulsing knot in her loins still rankling.

His gaze lingered on hers for a fraction too long, flexing that same indomitable power over her, that rendered her incapable of looking elsewhere. Not teasing, nor probing; reminding her, for no other reason than because he could, that she belonged to him now. He could say and do whatever he pleased, without consequence, and she would be in no position to challenge it. She wondered if a collar, leash and collapsible riding crop were contained in that backpack. And a paddle. Perhaps a cat-o-nine-tails for good measure.

So, at 10:05am on a July Saturday morning, Valeria Andreevna Dyagileva had seen three dead bodies, one murder, and a nude serial killer, and was now sat drinking coffee at a kitchen table in the holiday home of a murdered, middle aged couple who she had secretly wished unpleasant things upon. Four corpses, decorating the floor like a radical art installation replete with realistic-smelling blood, had just witnessed the commencement of an agonizingly protracted foreplay session between their killer and their ex-neighbor; in that respect, the three upstairs had gotten away lightly. And, if said killer's words were true, within five hours she would end up as an amateur film slut and the only witness of her fiancé's demise. Her own murder was yet to be discussed, and in all honesty, she wasn't sure if she even wanted to know.

At that thought, somewhere deep down inside, a miniature voice began to stir, uncomfortably; the voice that, against all odds, questioned everything she had fastidiously upheld. That gnawing little voice that argued she wanted to live. It was natural, she guessed. All living creatures were hardwired for survival. Even the most ardent suicidal enthusiasts had doubts at some time or other; but they fought past them, quashed them, and achieved their goal - and so would she. She prayed that watching Jacques' death would be enough to silence it forever. Logically, what good was living if he wasn't alive to carry the guilt? If he was dead, she might as well be.

What good was living if the person you cherished most in the world wasn't in it, rather?

*Shut up. This is not the time or place for sentimentality.*

She stared absently into the scalding dark liquid, half paying attention to the boys' conversation – NASCAR now - and half drifting off into some hazey, comfortably numb place the caffeine couldn't touch. It struck her that she was becoming quite the expert at zoning out. Fifteen minutes later, with her captors having moved on to the NHL and the Carolina Hurricanes' first Stanley Cup win in history, the washer-dryer beeped, rousing her.

"OK," Blondie announced, fetching the shorts, "time to get going."

Peter nodded, removing his gloves to don the shorts, but keeping the bathrobe on. Lera noticed he had oddly delicate-looking hands; broad, but not thick and stocky as she would have imagined. As he wrung out the t-shirt, Blondie, who seemed to know the Ebners' kitchen like his own, grabbed a large Pyrex bowl from the first cupboard he opened, and brought it to his friend. Peter sprayed a load of Zout on it, and his gloves, then placed them in the bowl. Blondie retrieved a fresh pair from the front pocket of the backpack.

"Lera, mind if we use your washer-dryer?" Blondie asked.

"That's fine," she mumbled.

"You're very kind, thank you."

"You're welcome." She forced a perfunctory smile.

He perched on the edge of the adjacent chair, leaning towards her, and purred, "If only the others had been as polite as you. Would've made things so much easier."

Lera wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, or if there was any veracity behind it; only that the way he said it sounded so damn seductive he could have been reading out a list of sprocket anatomies and it would still get her moist. He scooted the chair closer, properly invading her space. Snaked his hand over her denim-covered knee, to her thigh, and stopped a centimetre short of her crotch. Only when he stood up did she realised she had been holding her breath.

"Finished your coffee?" he said brusquely, as if nothing had just transpired between them. Lera nodded. "Then let's go."

He replaced the table salt and Zout in the backpack and slung it over one shoulder, and the clipper over the other. Peter took the beach bag and the bowl.

Blondie saluted the corpses with a sunny "that's all, folks!", then the trio exited. Peter unlocked the door and left the house first, leaving the other two inside whilst he scoped out the immediate exterior, before quickly judging it safe. Although it was a beautiful, bright day, from the Ebners' side of the bay there appeared to be no-one about. No walkers, no dogs, or even boats. These two murderers, it seemed, could command luck, too.

Peter courteously helped Lera aboard the sloop, then with his friend set about rigging.

"Hey, I wonder if the lovely Mrs Farber's moved any?" Blondie mused aloud, at the first break in conversation.

Lera felt her gut churn. Despite all she had witnessed at the Ebners' house, and how she had quickly acclimatized herself to it, seeing her dead friend would never be easy.

"Hmm," said Peter.

"No wind. I guess not... But Lera, don't worry. You've seen her once, you don't need to again if you don't want to. I guess the effect's worn off by now anyway."

She shot him her best empty look, albeit expecting him to see through it. Whether fooled or indifferent, he made nothing of it.

There was no conversation between any of them, save for Peter whistling some vaguely familiar pop tune and Paul joining in, until the boat was launched. Sat starboard, Lera turned to watch the residence drift away in dreamlike slow motion. As the distance between them and the Ebners' dock increased, so did the sense of unreality, almost as if the last hour had been no more than a figment of imagination. She wondered how long it would stay that way, undisturbed, before someone broke down the door and discovered the crime scene, shattered the false calm.

Seconds later, out of the corner of her vision she saw Blondie, by the tiller and motor, looking at her. Meeting his gaze, she noticed a mischievous glint in those predatory eyes, although his pupils were back to normal. But that could have been because of the light.

"You know, Lera," he said, "I can't wait till we're back at yours. I'm _starving_."

Peter snort-giggled, in that sickeningly cute, childlike way that no-one would equate with a murderer.

A delightful yet horrible shudder ran through her, agitating her cooling heart. She knew it; the moment things calmed down, her tormentor would shake them up again. That was, assuming he wasn't speaking in double entendres.

"Don't you think I'm-" she started, without thinking, then realised it might only make matters worse. She prayed Blondie wouldn't follow it up.

Her prayers weren't answered.

"Don't I think you're... what?"

*Shit. Might as well come clean. He'll just suss it out anyway.*

"Flawed," she said nervously. "Ugly. Fat and..." She couldn't bring herself to say outright flabby, saggy, prematurely aged, and way below his league. The more attention she drew to her imperfections, the worse they could be used against her. Shit; she was an idiot for having said anything in the first place.

He sat back, gaze scanning her up and down once more, and replied confidently, "Sure you've got a few jelly rolls and could use a bit of toning up, but you're hardly repulsive, I promise. Believe it or not I'm actually pretty discerning."

"He is," seconded Peter cheerily.

"Now Tubby, on the other hand-"

"Oh swivel," 'Tubby' grumbled.

"Uh uh uh, Tubby. Can you seriously deny your stint as a rent boy every winter?"

"You're such an asshole."

He addressed Lera: "But women only. Crack addicts, new mothers, two tonne heifers, geriatrics, amputees, crazy cat ladies; anyone who pays him, he'll do it. And I've gotta admit, he's absolutely superb. Hats off to the guy, he can get the job done for even the worst of them. Actually, he's still got something going on with a widow in Alpine-"

"How dare you!"

"73, she is. Seventy fucking three. He's hoping she'll make him the sole beneficiary of her will."

He cleared his throat, continuing, "So, in conclusion, Lera, you're not perfect, but I certainly wouldn't throw you out of bed. I'm sure Tubby wouldn't either... but you'd have to pay him."

Well, that was better than she had expected.

"Your sister did," Peter chided.

"I swear to God, Tubby," Blondie said calmly, "one of these days and I'm gonna punch you right in the fucking face."

"Then your sister'll kiss it better."

"Er, Tubby, what do you call a Russian guy who you wish would go away? Ovakov."

The two stared each other out, before cracking up. Try as she might, Lera couldn't help but be drawn in, their laughter infectious and their joke actually damn funny. Or perhaps it wasn't funny at all, and she was laughing for some other, repressed reason; despair, futility, hysteria. Or perhaps, deep down, she just needed to laugh, to relieve some tension. Regardless, she couldn't help but join in, and, like old friends, the boys didn't appear to question that she did. It was an odd, but strangely satisfying moment.

"Ovakova sounds even funnier," she ventured. "Next time you need to tell a female where to go, say that to her."

"Noted," Blondie said with a reverent nod. "And that's a good one, so thank you. _Ovakova_, Tubby."

Peter slung him a withering look. Paul gave an amused snort.

"See?" he said, "We're not difficult to get along with, are we?"

Lera shrugged. What-fuckin'-ever.

"Teach us a Russian song."

*And the next item is... a demand from straight out of leftfield. Kapow!*

"I'm a useless singer."

"That's immaterial. Teach us a song."

"What kind of song?"

"Well, seeing as we're in a boat, how about a shanty?"

* * *

Ann Farber's corpse notwithstanding, the rest of the short voyage passed with remarkable civility, Lera teaching her companions one of the only two shanties she knew – the stern, sombre Song of the Volga Boatmen, which if you didn't understand the lyrics, sounded appropriately for today's occasion more like a funeral march. The boys had agreed as much, although in the absence of anything cheerier had forged a valiant effort in getting to grips with it, accent and all. They seemed the type of people who committed themselves wholeheartedly to an idea, determined to see it through with the best of their abilities. Although what had resulted was a distinctly American-accented rendering, their attempt was laudable nevertheless, and Lera couldn't deny she was impressed.

True to their word, they hadn't forced her to look at the body as the sloop drifted by, although, just as she had feared, the sight of it in the distance filled her with a leaden sense of dread. If not for the singing, she might not have been able to hold it together. It occurred to her then that maybe, however remote it may seem, the duo were treating her to a rare moment of humanity, having her teach them a song in order to keep her distracted from the surrounding horrors. Unlikely, - and even if they were, it wouldn't be without a catch, no doubt – but possible. Regardless, she tried to enjoy it for what it was; a transient period of reprieve on a beautiful day before everything went to hell.

It was now 10:50.

"Getting hot out there, isn't it," Blondie remarked, shooting Lera a knowing look before locking the door behind them.

Although her panties had nearly dried, they still felt mildly uncomfortable, her lust and arousal stubbornly lingering. She wondered what the case was for him, imagining him walking around with a hard-on like it was absolutely nothing. What she would have given at that moment to just brush her hand against his crotch and see. She still couldn't quite believe she was feeling like this for a cold-hearted killer, that he excited her in a way no-one had in such a long time. Life was truly a bitch sometimes.

"When I went out the sun was hot," began his bathrobe-clad friend, wistfully, "it shone upon my flower pot, and there I saw a spike of green, that no one else has ever seen... First poem I ever wrote at school, in first grade."

"Woe, woe, Tom, slow down!" Blondie said, leading the group kitchen-bound. "Something of that profundity, for a young child... It's astounding."

"Well, Mrs. Bryce thought so. I got a gold star for it!"

"And then you decided you'd accomplished your mission in life; and it was all downhill from there."

"Hey Jerry, OH MY GOD WHAT'S THAT ON YOUR FACE?! IT'S YOUR FACE!"

Paul addressed Lera, looking miffed: "See what I have to put up with? This stupid, puerile behavior. I swear, this is what's driven me to murder." Then, to Peter, as they entered the spacious kitchen; "Wouldn't be where I am without you, Tom!"

"I know," Peter concurred warmly, beaming. "But you did drive me to it, insulting me all the time."

Paul closed his eyes in mock frustration.

"It's done with love, Tom. We both know that. I'm your bro' and that's what bro's do."

Peter huffed.

Mock sparring though it seemed to be, Lera thought she detected an underlying grain of truth to the shorter boy's inflection. Whatever the true nature of their relationship, and although he seemed content as a beta, in awe of the tall, erudite blonde who lead him, it was clear he had limits, and that he wasn't beyond defending himself if need be.

They dumped the bags and bowl on the granite-topped island. Paul went about stocking the fridge and freezer, whilst Peter, routing around for something in the cupboards, continued, "You should have heard the second poem. That was the definition of awesome... for a first grader."

"Was that the one that got your sister in a whole heap of squicky stuff? I vaguely remember you mentioning something about that, back in the mists of time."

"It was, yeah. Oh, Lera, where's the detergent?"

"In the washing room," she answered, pointing to the door on the other side of the room.

Peter smiled in response, picking up the bowl and scooting off, with a "Be right back!"

"Good thing this isn't a horror movie, Tom!" his friend called after him.

"It's a black comedy!" Peter called back, from the other room. "I may still have an unfortunate accident with piano wire yet!"

Flitting back and fourth from the island to the bags, Blondie said to his captive, "So, this poem: from what I recall – Peter and I were pretty smashed out of our faces when he recounted it to me – he was assigned,for homework, a task of writing a poem about animals. He couldn't come up with anything so he asked his elder sister to help. His sister was 14 and wrote him this... this... mess, completely inappropriate for a 6 year old kid; and he, none the wiser, thought it was brilliant, handed it in to the teacher, who smelt a rat and got onto his parents about."

Scurrying back into the room, Peter took up from where his friend had left off: "_I went outside into the dark night sky, I looked up above and saw a bird on high. She said "I've taken lots of drugs, it's a wonderful feeling, come to my house party and join me on the ceiling." So I said "gimme your amphetamine and a few dozen E's, and I'll jump like a squirrel from the tops of the trees. I'll howl like a wolf for the rest of the night, and give everybody a massivenormous fright! I'll drive my car like a cheetah, I'll drive it real fast, so unless you cops are haemorrhoids get off my goddamn ass! _That's it. She keeps it on her kitchen pinboard now, as the first and only time she got into trouble."

Blondie looked surprised. "That's it? That's the poem?"

Peter shrugged.

"Thought it would be worse than that. I guess it's the 'massivenormous' part that landed her in trouble. You know how hot teachers are on the butchering of our bastard language."

"Or the fact that a haemorrhoid isn't an animal."

"Hey Mom, what's a haemorrhoid? I want one for a pet!"

The cheery warble of Lera's ringtone sounded, from Blondie's shorts' pocket. He retrieved the device and handed it to her. Jacques.

"Put him on speakerphone," Blondie ordered impassively.

She steeled herself, then obeyed.

"Hey," she chirped.

"Hey," Jacques chirped back. "I'm leaving now. All being well, should be with you in an hour and a half. Luca's managing fine but wanted to give me something for the party, so I have to detour there first."

"Great! OK, well... Call me when you're half an hour away, just so I can get ready."

"Half an hour? Since when were you so low maintenance?"

"I'm already mostly done. I just need to put some finishing touches to my makeup."

"Lera, I know you."

*Oh shit.*

A pause that seemed much longer than it actually was.

"You're cooking something, aren't you? How many times have I told you-"

*Phew!*

"OK! So I was trying to cook something. I just... felt like it. I'm sorry."

"That's why you're marrying a chef, sweets. The world's worst cook meets the world's best!"

"I bow down to your superior modesty. And it's just going to be rice salad."

"Rice salad, in your hands?"

"Oh shut up."

Jacques laughed. He was entirely right, though; Lera and making food didn't belong in the same sentence. Her disastrous attempts made funazushi – the Japanese delicacy of rotten fish – seem appetizing.

"I'm making it anyway, so there. And I'll foot the bill for the clean up operation."

"Well, so long as you're prepared."

"I am."

"Good."

He chuckled.

"So, call me half an hour before, OK?"

"Sure."

"OK. Talk to you soon, then."

"Yes."

"Take care."

"Always do!"

"Bye."

She ended the call. Not even fake declarations of love this time. She wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

"Nice set of knives you've got there," Blondie remarked, observing the block on the counter that no longer housed tools of Jacques' trade, but potential implements of torture and murder. "I should've guessed Frenchie was a chef."

Lera did no more than look at him. He held her gaze, then returned to re-stocking the fridge.

"Well then," he declared, "That leaves us about 45 minutes before we can start getting cozy."

Something inside Lera twinged.

"What do you want to do till then?"

Lera shrugged. "I don't know. Cook something?"

Or how about musical chairs to Jacques' collection of John Coltrane? Frozen yogurt poker? Mime? 45 minutes of that incomprehensible arthouse favourite of Jacques', Last Year at Marienbad?

"You don't have any ingredients. Unless there's a stash in the cellar?"

"No- sorry, I... I forgot."

"And even if you did, I'd take your fiancé's advice."

*Hah fucking hah.*

Peter piped up, "I have an idea."


	11. UPDATE

Just a quick update for the select few who are reading Funny Games & Hilarious Pranks. You aren't many, and all but two of you review, but your views are much appreciated, so in case of any confusion I wanted to make you aware of something. This story is NOT on indefinite hiatus; the plot has already been planned and the ending decided upon. However, updates may be delayed because I am currently in a very difficult, unsteady situation and cannot guarantee to have time to write. The next chapter may be another two weeks or more, and the following ones may be the same, but everything is so uncertain at the moment that this could change, or it could not. Please bear with me, and keep checking back if possible. I promise this story will not be abandoned! :)


	12. UPDATE 2

Hey everyone!

Just to let you know, finally things seem to be stabilizing in my life, so the next chapter will be complete within the next two weeks. I apologize for the delay, and extend my gratitude to those who are sticking around.

See you soon!


End file.
